


Death is Not the End

by Mirage01



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-07-11 12:15:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 40,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7050592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirage01/pseuds/Mirage01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Jon Snow steps into eternity he remembers the one person that loved him for him.  His baby sister.  Arya. (This is an Ayra-centric fic because I'm obsessed with her, with a bit of everyone else thrown into the mix.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first ASoIaF fic. Normally a Vampire Diaries writer but I have finally caught onto the Game of Thrones frenzy! Hope you like it!

They said that once you die, there was no coming back. No rebirth, no resurrection. Just death. And for some that death was sweet. No more fighting, no more pain. No just surviving for the sake of it. Death was a release for the hellish life the gods had bestowed on them. Death was peace.

But for others death was unwelcomed. Leaving loved ones behind, leaving regrets about what one could’ve done, should’ve done, and would’ve done. Leaving debts unpaid.

And one could be forgiven to think that once you died that was it. No lingering over past mistakes or no farwelling of much loved ones. That death was the end.

But death was not the end. It was in fact the beginning of something new.

Jon Snow stood in the nothingness of the in between, confused as to why he had not gone on. He remembered his death, the pain of treason as his men, his brothers, stabbed him and stole from him his life.

He remembered thinking as he stared into young Olly’s eyes that he was no older than Bran yet he had seen enough pain and death to last two men two lifetimes.

He remembered his brothers – his blood brothers – their faces and remembered praying that once he reached the other side that he’d see those faces once again.

He even remembered his half-sister, Sansa, in her ethereal beauty, looking down on him with a look very much like how her mother use to.

But what Jon remembered the most was smoky grey eyes filled with mischievous laughter one minute and frustrated exasperation another. Eyes that he had not seen for years. He remembered shoulder length dark hair, very much like his own, braided conservatively one minute and then not even hours later knotted into a matted mess. What Jon remembered the most was his baby sister Arya Stark.

He had been close to most of his siblings, bar Sansa and had a different relationship with each and every one of them. With Robb, Robb was his best friend and his closest rival. They had shared laughter and easy banter, knowing that they would be there for each other no matter what. With Bran he had been Bran’s mentor. With Robb busy learning the way of becoming Lord of Winterfell from their father, it was Jon would taught Bran the ways of sword fighting, shooting an arrow and how to charm the kitchen wenches to sneak him extra treats. With Rickon he was older brother who would tumble with him. Play fighting when Rickon’s lady mother wasn’t around and playing pranks on his older siblings. Sansa barely gave him the time of day, forever reminding him and the world that he was the bastard brother, her distaste for him mirroring that of her mothers.

But with Arya, she had been his secret keeper. His baby sister who accepted him, bastard status and all. The one who when asked how many siblings she had would proudly say four brothers and one sister. There was no half in Arya’s mind, no bastard. Just him her brother. Her favorite brother.

He remembered the last time he saw her, thinking that this skinny, dirt streak little girl was one day going to break more hearts than even Sansa and not realize it. Or care.

He remembered that last meeting, held onto it and cherished it. It got him through some hard times thinking of his little sister. Of her acceptance and the warmth of her smile. Her unmerited love for the bastard son of her father.

Blinking Jon allowed the memory of that last meeting to wash over him, unwilling to hold it at bay, when it had comforted him, many a night.

_**Arya had been in her room, packing a polished ironwood chest that was bigger than she was. She was so tiny, his sister, yet had the courage of men four times her size.** _

_**Nymeria her direwolf was helping. Arya would only have to point, and the wolf would bound across the room, snatch up some wisp of silk in her jaws, and fetch it back. But when she smelled her brother-wolf Ghost, she sat down on her haunches and yelped at them.** _

_**It should not have amazed Jon the closeness of the two direwolves. Their relationship mirroring that of his and Arya’s. But at times it did. There were times when they seem to exclude their other sibling cubs finding comfort in only each other. Just like him and Arya.** _

_**Arya glanced behind her, saw Jon, and jumped to her feet. She threw her skinny arms tight around his neck, her relief evident in the tightness of her grip. Jon chuckled, hugging his sister tightly. He was going to miss this. Her hugs.** _

_**“I was afraid you were gone,” she said, her breath catching in her throat. “They wouldn’t let me out to say good-bye.”** _

_**“What did you do now?” Jon was amused. She was always in trouble, his sister. Even more so than Rickon.** _

_**Arya disentangled herself from him and made a face.** _

_**“Nothing. I was all packed and everything.” She gestured at the huge chest, no more than a third full, and at the clothes that were scattered all over the room. “Septa Mordane says I have to do it all over. My things weren’t properly folded, she says. A proper southron lady doesn’t just throw her clothes inside her chest like old rags, she says.” She pouted, causing the side of Jon’s mouth to kick up in amusement.** _

_**“Is that what you did, little sister?”** _

_**“Well, they’re going to get all messed up anyway,” she said, exasperated. “Who cares how they’re folded?”** _

_**“Septa Mordane,” Jon told her, with silent amusement. “I don’t think she’d like Nymeria helping, either.” The she-wolf regarded him silently with her dark golden eyes. Jon had a feeling that if she could, she would be rolling her eyes at him very much like her mistress was now. “It’s just as well. I have something for you to take with you, and it has to be packed very carefully.”** _

_**Her face lit up. “A present?”** _

_**“You could call it that. Close the door.” He whispered nodding his head towards the door.** _

_**Wary but excited, Arya scampered around him and checked the hall.** _

_**“Nymeria, here. Guard.” She left the wolf out there to warn of intruders and closed the door. Ghost had followed his sister, nipping Arya’s fingers in affection on the way out. By then Jon had pulled off the rags he had wrapped her present in. He held it out to her.** _

_**Arya’s eyes went wide. Dark eyes, like his bouncing from her present to his face.** _

_**“A sword,” she said in a small, hushed breath. “You got me a sword!”** _

_**The scabbard was soft grey leather, supple as sin. Jon drew out the blade slowly, so she could see the deep blue sheen of the steel.** _

_**“This is no toy,” he told her. “Be careful you don’t cut yourself. The edges are sharp enough to shave with.”** _

_**“Girls don’t shave,” Arya stated automatically, eyes never leaving the blade.** _

_**“Maybe they should. Have you ever seen the septa’s legs?” he asked, drawing a giggle from her.** _

_**“It’s so skinny.” She said in awe, reaching out to touch it almost reverently.** _

_**“So are you,” Jon told her, smiling. “I had Mikken make this special. The bravos use swords like this in Pentos and Myr and the other Free Cities. It won’t hack a man’s head off, but it can poke him full of holes if you’re plenty fast enough.”** _

_**“I can be fast,” Arya told him, eyes alight with excitement.** _

_**“You’ll have to work at it every day.” He told her, putting the sword in her hands. Silently he showed her how to hold it, and stepped back. “How does it feel? Do you like the balance?”** _

_**“I think so,” Arya said.** _

_**“First lesson,” Jon said, cupping the back of her neck. “Stick them with the pointy end.”** _

_**Arya gave him a whap on the arm with the flat of her blade. The blow stung, but Jon found himself grinning like an idiot.** _

_**“I know which end to use,” Arya said, her lips thinning as if to hold back an answering grin. A doubtful look crossed her face. “Septa Mordane will take it away from me.”** _

_**“Not if she doesn’t know you have it,” Jon said.** _

_**“Who will I practice with?”** _

_**“You’ll find someone,” Jon promised her. “King’s Landing is a true city, a thousand times the size of Winterfell. Until you find a partner, watch how they fight in the yard. Run, and ride, make yourself strong. And whatever you do...”** _

_**Arya knew what was coming next. They said it together.** _

_**“Don’t... tell... Sansa!” they laughed, identical grey eyes meeting and alight with laughter. They sobered standing there and staring at one another.** _

_**Jon messed up her hair. “I will miss you, little sister.”** _

_**Suddenly she looked like she was going to cry. “I wish you were coming with us.”** _

_**“Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle. Who knows?” He was feeling better now. He was not going to let himself be sad. “I better go. I’ll spend my first year on the Wall emptying chamber pots if I keep Uncle Ben waiting any longer.”** _

_**Arya ran to him for one last hug.** _

_**“Put down the sword first,” Jon warned her, laughing. She set it aside almost shyly, jumped back into his arms and showered him with kisses. Jon buried his face in her hair breathing in her scent, his arms tightening.** _

_**Lowering her to the ground, Jon planted one last kiss on his sister’s head, before making his way towards the door.** _

_**When he turned back at the door, she was holding it again, trying it for balance. “I almost forgot,” he told her. “All the best swords have names.”** _

_**“Like Ice,” she said, speaking of their father’s sword. She looked at the blade in her hand. “Does this have a name? Oh, tell me.”** _

_**“Can’t you guess?” Jon teased. “Your very favourite thing.”** _

_**Arya seemed puzzled at first. Then it came to her. She was that quick. They said it together: “Needle!”** _

_**The memory of her laughter warmed him on the long ride north.** _

“Jon?”

Jon froze at the deep familiar voice that drew him from his memories. If he was dead could his heart actually skip a beat? Because it sure as hells felt like it did.

“Jon. Turn around Jon.” That voice, that voice, gently encouraged him causing Jon to almost stumble as he spun around, dark grey eyes meeting dark grey eyes.

“Father –“ he choked, staring at the familiar face, with its closely trimmed beard shot with white, long brown hair and warm but solemn smile. “Oh gods, father!” forgetting himself and the fact that he was a man of nine and ten he threw himself at his father feeling those familiar arms surround him in a hug that shifted the breath from his body.

“Jon.” Another voice. Another familiar voice that had Jon convinced that his dead heart was actually beating. Pulling himself from his father’s arms he turned towards the younger voice blinking in stunned amazement as he spied his brother, his best friend and closest rival, grinning at him like a fool, those Tully eyes alight with unshed tears.

“Robb!” Jon felt like crying. Felt like curling himself into a ball and letting the pain and the agony of past years flow out of him as he took in the face that his father and his brother stood in front of him, so very real, so very touchable.

The two brothers hugged fiercely both choked up with emotion. Both not realizing that the tears they tried so hard to keep at bay was leaking from their eyes.

The three Stark men stood in silence as they basked in each other’s presence.

“What is this?” Jon asked them once he and Robb had released each other. “Where are we?”

“You know where you are, Jon. The last step before you reach the ancestors.” Robb told him quietly. “They said you would be here. They said we would meet again.”

“They?”

“Old gods of the forest.” His father said quietly. “Our gods.”

Jon took a moment to take it all in. That would mean …

“So that’s it then?” he asked them, scratching his chest at the empty feeling inside. “We are finished in this life.”

“For us, yes.” His father told him, nodding his head towards Robb. “For you no.”

Jon started, staring at his father.

“What?” “Our time brother is definitely up; you however still have more that needs to be done.” Robb told him. Jon blinked at him confused. “We need more from you.”

“But how – why?”

“Winterfell.” Their father informed him, solemn once again. “Sansa, Rickon, Bran.” Father paused shooting him a smile. “Arya.”

“Bran and Rickon are dead –“Jon pointed out, achingly. “Sansa is gods knows where and I have not heard from or about Arya in so long.” Jon paused, thinking quickly. “Wait, Bran and Rickon.” He breathed, his brain finally catching up with him. “They aren’t dead.” He whispered. Because if they were, they’d be here. With Father. With Robb. “Theon didn’t kill them?” more of a plea than a statement.

“No brother. He killed two farmer boys, burned them and made everyone believe it was our brothers.” Robb told him.

“But then where are they?” Jon asked. He had felt guilt over their deaths. He should have been there for them. To protect them. “And if that means they aren’t dead then what about Arya?” he asked hopefully. “And Sansa?”

Ned smiled at him, turning him around. Before him stood an old weir tree, very much like the one at Winterfell.

“Touch it. See.” His father encouraged. Hesitant at first, Jon met his father’s gaze before glancing at Robb, who nodded at him.

Clenching his fingers he reached out to touch the old tree, gasping as it felt like he was thrown into a pool of ice cold water. He saw Bran, Hodor and Summer with two people he did not know, making their way through the snow and ice. He saw another massive weir tree, this one bigger than he had ever seen, and in that tree waiting for his brother an old man, who seem to stare into Jon’s very soul.

Jerking he was wrenched from that scene and taken to another where he saw a much older Rickon and Shaggydog. With them a wildling woman as she smiled at Rickon softly whose head rested on her lap. Very much like a mother would with a child. They were in a cave, waiting out the storm that raged around them.

Another jerk and suddenly he was before Sansa, hair dyed dark, blue eyes filled with tears as the parchment she read fluttered from her hands to the ground. The words – _**Lord Commander Jon Snow is dead**_ – leapt out at him as he watched the sister who showed him no love cry for him.

And finally another jerk. This time it took him to a darkened room with a cot. A small figure dressed in grey lay on that cot, hair dark, face pale lips moving.

“Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei, The Mountain, Walder Frey.” He could hear her words clearly. “Valar Moghulis.”

“Arya.” He whispered, taking a step forward, he watched as she froze, her head popping up from her pillow as if she heard him. Head cocked to one side, very much like how Ghost or Nymeria would. “Sister it’s –“

Suddenly Jon was jerked again, hauled back from that vision and bought back to reality. Bought back to his father and his brother.

Glancing around him wildly he stopped at stared at his father.

“I saw them. Each of them. All alive.” He breathed.

His father smiled at him.

“It is time for you to go back to them, Jon. To reunite with them. All of them.” His father reached out to grab him by the back of the neck, a familiar gesture that he use to do to Arya all the time. “The old gods talk about a prophecy that has yet to be fulfilled. There is a war coming. Winter is here. They need a King and an army who can weather the winter and win that war.” His father bought his face closer, resting his forehead on Jon’s. “You, your brothers and your sisters are the Wolves of Winterfell. The trueborns of the North. You and your siblings will unite the North, wildling and man alike. Wildling, man and dragonborn alike.” His father clapped both hands on Jon’s shoulders. “They can’t do this without you and you can’t do this without them.”

Jon searched his father gaze, searching for answers to questions he had not even voiced yet.

“How are we to win a war that we have no idea how to fight?” he asked his father.

“Look to your cubmates. To your siblings. Bran will be your hand. Your advisor. What he is going through now, is training him for what’s to come.” His father told him. “Rickon will be your Lord Commander. His skills that he is learning from his travels and from the wildling woman will prep him for that.” His father took a deep breath. “Sansa will be your voice of reason. She will ground each and every one of you. Your brothers, your sister. You.”

“And Arya?” Jon asked, almost afraid to hear the answer. What could it be that the gods had for his little sister?

“Arya will be your secret weapon.” Robb told him, drawing Jon’s eyes to him. “She will be your assassin. Listen well to her brother, she knows things, has seen things that I wish she had not.” There was a look in Robb’s eyes that had Jon taking a deep breath. “Things that our baby sister has gone through that she should not have.” Robb gave him a wan smile. “Her experience will help you. Let her train the troops. Let her fight.”

Jon felt his heart stutter at the thought of his sister going into war.

“You need her on the battlefield, by your side.” Robb told him, patting him on the shoulder like their father did. “You need all of them to win this war.”

Jon nodded, trying to get his head straight.

“How do I go back? How do I find them?” His father smiled.

“Arya is already on her way back to you, Jon. Stay at Castle Black till she reaches you. Together you will find the others.”

“And going back?”

“Just jump, Jon.” Robb told him turning him around. Suddenly Jon felt the swirling winds of the north around him, and the icy cold seep into his skin. He was at the Wall again. Looking down.

“Take a leap of faith Jon. And jump.” Robb teased.

“Yeah easy for you to say brother.” Jon mumbled, staring down, his stomach dropping.

“Jon.” Jon raised his head staring at his father. “Look after them son. You are the only Starks left.”

Jon nodded refusing to say anything lest he cry.

“Goodbye, son.” His father hugged him, patting him hard on the back.

“Bye father.”

Jon watched as his father gave him one last smile as he walked backwards until he couldn’t see him anymore.

“Brother.” Robb held out a hand. Staring down at it, Jon clasped his forearm giving him the warriors grip. “Till we meet again.”

“Till we meet again, brother.” Jon repeated softly.

Spinning him quickly Robb gave him one last smile before pushing him off the edge of the wall, Jon’s eyes widening in surprise.

“Protect the family Jon. Protect our family.”

 

:::

 

Ser Davos Seaworth stared down at the pale man before him, feeling all hope slip away like a ghost in the night.

His last hope, their last hope had been in the Red Woman. Had thought that she could do the impossible. That she could bring back the life of Jon Snow.

But he had been wrong. Very wrong.

Helpless, frustrated and almost without hope, Davos pushed himself to his feet, feeling his bones creak and his muscles ache.

The commander’s wolf lay next to the table its master was on, those red eyes staring at him.

“I’m sorry boy. I tried.” He told the wolf, wanting to reach down and comfort the beast but not too sure he’d come away with his hand.

Suddenly the wolf stood those red eyes on the door behind Davos.

“What?” Davos asked the beast. “What is it?” he had taken to trusting the beasts instincts as had the rest of the men of the Night Watch.

The wolf took off, bounding towards the door, not growling but – whimpering? He scratched almost desperately at the closed door.

“Who’s there?” Davos commanded, drawing the sword and holding it out in front of him. He wasn’t the best swordsman, but he supposed he could do some damage. He hoped.

“Open the door.” The voice was definitely female. Low. Non-descriptive. No accent.

“Identify yourself, woman.” He demanded. “Or my Lord’s wolf will have your throat.”

“Open the door, Ser Davos and let your Lord’s wolf see me.”

Davos blinked, eyeing the wolf who continued to scratch at the door. There was no aggression in the beast, no call for it to be protective. It in fact seemed like it was desperate to get to the woman on the other side of the door.

Davos then made a choice, maybe it was a stupid one, but what else could happen. Jon Snow was dead, he was an old man, and the wolf was more than able to take care of himself.

Taking a deep breath, Davos reached out and unlocked the door, pulling it open.

On the other side stood a woman, dressed in black, hood pulled low over her face. Beside her stood a beast of grey and white, golden eyes glaring at Davos like it wanted to rip out his throat. It stood shoulder height with the woman, its ears pinned back, teeth bared.

The commander’s wolf howled as it stalked towards the pair, before pausing as if undecided about its welcome.

“Come.” The woman commanded holding out her hand to the commander’s wolf.

Davos almost told her not to, almost warned her. But he was astonished when the white wolf made his way meekly towards the woman, instantly licking her hand. The beast of grey and white nuzzled the white wolf affectionately.

“Who are you that you can command my Lord Commander’s wolf that way, woman?” Davos demanded his heart in his throat.

She took another step towards him, stepping into the light. She was a slight thing that much Davos could tell. The robes she wore not as voluminous as it should be to protect against the winter’s cold.

Suddenly the commander’s wolf turned sharply its eyes on its master. Even the beast of grey and white with its golden eyes stared at the body of Jon Snow.

The woman ignored him and Davos found himself not saying anything as he watched the woman drift towards the Commander, her movements graceful and almost mesmerizing.

He watched as she lifted unclothed hands to touch the commander’s face reverently. The touch spoke of love, affection and loss. It spoke of familiarity.

“Ser Davos, who is this woman and why have you let her near the Lord Commander!” Davos turned to meet the Red Woman’s angry gaze, her face mottled with rage.

“Who I am is none of your business, Melisandre.” The woman replied softly, never taking her eyes off the Commander.

“You seem to know who I am, woman, but one does not know who you are.” The Red Woman said through gritted teeth.

Low mocking laughter came from the hooded woman as she lifted her head.

“Why don’t you ask your gods, Melisandre? Or is he quiet all of a sudden?”

The Red Woman gasped with outrage, moving forward as if to physically remove the hooded woman from the room. She was stopped however, by the two massive beasts, one pure white, the other grey and white, who stepped in front of her, teeth bared in warning.

“Move.” She commanded the beasts waving her hands. Instead of moving away they moved towards her, stalking her like she were prey. She stumbled back, a flash of fear crossing her features as she glanced from the two stalking beasts to the hooded woman and then to Davos.

“Halt.” The hooded woman commanded and both beasts did as command.

“Who are you?” The Red Woman snapped through gritted teeth and Davos frowned at the look on her face. It was almost as if she were – jealous of the hooded woman.

Those crystal blue eyes watched as the other woman ignored her and turned back towards the commander. He watched as she cupped the commander’s face and placed a kiss on his forehead, on one cheek then the other.

Davos found himself straining to hear what the hooded woman was whispering to the commander.

“It’s time to come back, brother.” He heard. “Time to come home.”

Suddenly Jon Snow gasped, his upper body jack knifing from the table, eyes wide as he took that first deep breath.

Davos watched stunned as the once dead Jon Snow panted as if he had run an age, his head turning towards the hooded woman.

“Arya.” He whispered reverently, staring at the woman before him.

Davos watched as the commander lifted shaky hands to push back the hood the woman wore, revealing long ink black hair braided, and a face that was astoundingly beautiful.

“Arya.” Slowly he pulled her face towards his, resting her forehead on his.

“Welcome back, big brother. Welcome back.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melisandre struggles with Arya back in Jon’s life. And Arya’s guard contemplates his charge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’ve decided to carry this on. Not sure how long it would be but hopefully I won’t drag it out too long! Hehe. In this everyone will be a mixture of the books and the show with a little of my influence thrown into the mix. Also their ages may/will differ. Some of the characters will be slightly OOC. Jon (20) Arya (16), Sansa (18), Bran 14, Rickon (11). Dany (18) Drago (29) Gendry (20) Aegon (20)

Melisandre was the type of woman who could say that she knew the ways of men.

She knew of their weaknesses, their desires, and their strength. She knew that a sultry smile with a hint of promise or a coy look behind thickly painted lashes and could either bring a man to his knees or make them believe they were invincible. 

Men could be such simple creatures at times. Their heads so easily turned by a pretty face or a flash of skin. They allowed their lusts to rule them, to dictate their actions. And it was not to say that it was just their lust of the flesh that dictated them. At times it was their lust for power, their lust for wealth and their lust for more.

But more times than not it was their lust for the flesh that was their downfall.

And Melisandre found that at a very early age she could persuade a man into giving her what she wanted, when she wanted, with just a whispered promise or a brush of her hand.

She was able to manipulate many a man with just her looks and she found even some women.

That type of power was heady. Exhilarating. And it was that type of power that Melisandre could say she wielded like a knight would a sword. With skill. With precision. With deadly intent.

Over the years many a man had fallen under the spell she had weaved. Many wanting – needing to taste and to touch what she offered.  
Melisandre had used her looks as her weapon, creating a false sense of seduction for her prey, causing them to fall for an illusion before she got what she wanted and then discarded them.

But there had been no man in all her years on this earth who had spurned her advances. No man who did not trip over themselves to do what she wanted, when she wanted, how she wanted. No man that is until Jon Snow.

Jon Snow, with his stupid honor and his insipid loyalty to his vows, was the first man ever who turned down what she offered so willingly.  
And she had been willing. So very, very willing.

He really was so beautiful to look upon. Tall, lean with such masculine grace that had turned Melisandre’s head at first glance. He had that brooding quality that made young maids sigh and older women long for.

They said he had the Stark look, with his dark hair, strong features and grey eyes. But what Melisandre saw was the breadth of his shoulders, the curve of his smile and the darkness in his eyes. 

It called to her. Enticed her. Beguiled her.

And she wanted him. In her bed, commanding her. Consuming her. Overwhelming her. She wanted it with every fiber of her being. He had been the first man in a very long time who she wanted first.

So she had offered what other men begged for only to have him turn her down. Oh she knew that he had been tempted, she had seen it in his eyes, but that damn honor of his stopped him. 

She had seen the flare of desire and seen how the temptation touch him. But. He. Turned. Her. Down.

And Melisandre could never, would never forgive him for such humiliation.

Two days had passed since the resurrection of the Lord Commander, and the only ones who had been granted permission to his rooms were Ser Davos Seaworth, the fat Maester Samwell Tarly and the woman – the girl that had appeared from nowhere just days before.

The girl with cold, emotionless grey eyes that seem to sear right through to Melisandre’s soul and found her lacking. The girl with the familiar face. The girl that Melisandre had no recollection of meeting yet looked at her as if she knew every single one of Melisandre’s secrets and wasn’t afraid of her despite it.

The Lord Commander’s much favored sister. Arya Stark. 

She looked much like Jon Snow from the darkness of her hair to the color of their eyes. But where Jon Snow was pale featured, this slip of a girl had a golden tone to her skin that spoke of many an hour in the sun.

She was wiry, and moved with the unconscious grace of the animal that never left her side. But there was no doubt to the girl’s beauty. Whereas her brother was a maid’s dream with his dark brooding looks, and warrior’s body, the girl would and could break many a man’s heart. 

If she didn’t gut it first. 

Melisandre wasn’t too proud to say that the girl made her uneasy. She had the fierceness of a wolf-cub and tended to eye people like they were prey. She also tended to look at Melisandre like she wanted her dead.

The men of the Night’s watch gave her and her beast a wide berth, most bowing their head in respect as she past while other’s murmured about her beauty.  
In a castle full of rapers, thieves and murderers they gave a slip of a girl a lot more respect that they had ever given her. Melisandre knew they feared her. But they didn’t respect her.

And she was intelligent enough to know that there was a difference.

Melisandre remembered seeing those eyes for the first time, watching the swirling silver as they raked over her. Those eyes saw far too much. Young eyes that were supposed to be full of life and innocence were now filled with shadows and death.

Where in the name of the Lord of Lights had she seen this girl before? Her face touched her memory but skirted just out of reach, confusing her.

Irritated, Melisandre gathered her skirts together and stormed her way up the stairs to the Lord Commander’s rooms only to be stopped by the warrior guard that had arrived with the girl. Slender and solemn, the man had absolutely no facial expressions as he stared at her. There were whispers around the Castle that he was an Unsullied, an elite warrior from Slaver’s Bay. Men who were sold at birth to train as elite warriors who obeyed without question. Died without care.

And Arya Stark owned one.

“Move yourself.” She commanded him, haughty. “I wish to enter.”

“Lady Arya said that no one was to enter.” He told her in his stilted common-tongue, his accent thick.

“I do not care what your lady said.” Melisandre hissed taking a step towards him. “I wish to enter!” her voice went up an octave, voicing her irritation.  
The guard continued to stare at her, face unwavering.

“Grey Worm.” The smooth cultured voice interrupted the staring match between the two and Melisandre watched as the guard bowed in respect before taking a step back.

“I wish to see the Lord Commander.” She told the girl imperiously, pulling herself up to her full height. “You will let me.” She insisted.

“No.” the girl replied calmly, that unsettling gaze once again staring into Melisandre’s soul. Ripping out her secrets and tearing them apart.

“The Lord of Light has something he wishes for me to share with the Lord Commander.” Melisandre lied, her gaze never wavering from the girls.

“You’re lying.” The girl smirked after a deafening pause. “Your eyes tell so many secrets, witch. Secrets that I would bet you do not realize they are admitting.” That smirk widened but remained cold, calculating. Melisandre resisted the urge to shiver. “I would garner a guess that your Lord of Light has not spoken to you for many moons.” Those eyes, those god-forsaken eyes, bore into hers and for the life of her Melisandre could not look away. “Your days of prophecy speaking are over.” The girl told her, prowling towards her, causing Melisandre to take a hasty step back, nearly tripping down the stairs. “Your Lord has left you.” 

Melisandre jerked, her eyes narrowing as she glared at her. How dare this girl question her power with her god.

Her Melisandre of Asshai, a Red Priestess for the Lord of Light. A priestess that has lived for centuries, seen and done more things than this girl could ever dream of. And she dare question her!

“Do you know who I am, little girl?” Melisandre purred, moving towards her. From the corner of her eye she watched as the warrior slave moved to intervene only to be stopped by the girl as she held up one hand. “Do you know what I can do to you?” she whispered seductively, palming the side of her face.

She had not only seduced many a man but many a woman as well. And this girl would fall like so many before her. Even if Melisandre had to force her to.  
Arya Stark stared at her a slow mocking smile crossing her face as she reached up to grip Melisandre’s chin with callused fingers.

That was a surprise the roughness of her fingers. Especially for a highborn girl as this.

“Look into my eyes, witch and see.” Arya whispered to her, her voice equally as seductive as Melisandre’s.

Melisandre twitched, trying to escape the girl’s grip but found herself frozen.

Staring into those grey pools Melisandre saw death, she saw destruction, and she saw darkness staring back at her. Brown eyes, blue eyes, green eyes. Wolf eyes, dragon eyes. Death’s eyes.

“The boy.” Melisandre breathed blinking and staring at the girl in wonder. “From the time with the Brotherhood. When –“

“They sold the Baratheon bastard to you.” The girl confirmed. “Gendry Waters.”

Melisandre remembered the big strapping lad with Baratheon hair and Baratheon eyes. Another of the rare ones that Melisandre had desired, but unlike Jon Snow, had not rebuffed her affections.

“You were correct, priestess. We did meet again.” Arya whispered, smiling and Melisandre gasped as she felt a pain pierce her belly. Looking down she was surprised to see a sharp jeweled blade sticking out from her stomach.

She knew that dagger, knew the owner of that dagger. Kinvara, also a servant of the Lord of Light, was a High Priestess in their order and someone who Melisandre had gone head to head with on many occasion.

What in the hells was Arya Stark doing with Kinvara’s dagger.

Clutching at the knife she gasped at the pain, her eyes meeting the silver grey ones of the girl in front of her.

“Your death was not on my list.” Arya Stark whispered. “But it was on someone else’s.” She twisted the blade, causing Melisandre to cough in pain, blood bubble to her lips. “Valar Morghulis.”

:::

Grey Worm watched as a member of his Khalessi’s royal guard took a step away from the dying red-headed woman, unconcerned when she slumped to the ground.  
She was a strange thing, this Arya Stark. So tiny, so little yet so very, very deadly. 

And for some odd reason, Grey Worm felt – affection for her. Not the same type of affection he felt for Missandei. That was altogether different and confusing, but affection just the same.

When he spoke to Missandei about it she said that it was a brotherly affection. Like what one would feel for a sibling.

Whatever it was, when Khalessi asked him to accompany Arya Stark across the narrow sea to her brother, he had said yes. But even though he knew she could look after herself, having another set of eyes was always a good thing.

She had been with them almost 19 moons when he, Khalessi and a group of scouting blood riders looking for the Khalessi’s eldest dragon, had found her – Arya Stark - fighting off dragon slayers who wanted to mount Rhaegal’s head to the wall. 

Rhaegal had been wounded and Grey Worm had watched stunned as this tiny little woman fought off three men simultaneously, protecting the Khalessi’s dragon. Five more men littered the ground, all already dead.

He and his men had quickly dispatched the remaining three, and he had watched as she eyed them suspiciously, her eyes drawn to Daenerys Targaryen.  
“What is your name, woman?” Khalessi had asked her, eyeing the small woman suspiciously.

“Tell me yours before I tell you mine.” The woman had countered, sword raised in front of her in defense.

“I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen. Queen of dragons, Khalessi of the Dothraki, wife of the great Khal Drogo –“

He remembered the girl holding out a hand stopping Khalessi in midsentence.

“I just asked you for your name, Daenerys Stormborn.” She coughed, lowering her sword and slumping in front of them. “I take it, he’s yours then?” She inclined her head towards a quiet Rhaegal, who whined pathetically nudging the girl with his snout.

It was a movement that stunned everyone watching. The Khalessi’s dragons barely tolerated anyone who wasn’t the Khalessi. They in fact were known to kill anyone who got too close to them on a whim. Yet Rhaegal not only allowed this small woman close to him but seem to seek for her affection.

“He is.” Khalessi replied softly, watching as the girl lifted a tired hand to pat Rhaegal on the nose. They all watched as the massive green and bronze dragon closed his eyes and accepted the woman’s touch, almost nuzzling the hand that patted him. "

“I’ll leave you to it then.” She told them, taking a step away from Rhaegal. “He’s been hit, near what could most probably be his heart with, although considering I know next to nothing about dragons, who knows. I think the doused their arrows with milk from the Valerian plant. It’s the reason why he’s so, lethargic. ”The girl shrugged, stumbling slightly. “Shit.” She cursed.

His queen dismounted quickly, making her way towards the girl.

“Khalessi please – “Jorah Mormont, the Khalessi’s right hand man had protested, dismounting as well, reaching out to stop her.

“You’re hurt.” Khalessi commented, ignoring her right hand and catching the girl before she slumped.

“Just a scratch.” The girl had croaked, blinking, she stared into the Khalessi’s eyes. “Huh, your eyes are purple.”

“You have more than just a scratch.” Khalessi had told her, lifting her dirty tunic to reveal a slash across her stomach. 

Rhaegal whined again, shuffling forward and nudging both women.

“I’ve had worse.” She mumbled, resting her head on Khalessi’s shoulder, her breathing short.

“I’m sure you have. Ser Jorah, please help – wait you haven’t told us your name.” Khalessi stated, staring down into the grey eyes of the girl.

“Arya Stark from House of Stark.” She paused, a grim smile crossing her features. “Your grace.” She mumbled before she slumped in Khalessi’s arms.

And for some odd reason, Arya Stark from the House of Stark had endeared herself to the Khalessi. Actually it was not an odd reason. Rhaegal had made the decision for them. His instant affection for the small Stark girl was the reason why Arya had become a close friend to the Khalessi.

And if Grey Worm didn’t know any better he would almost swear that the Khalessi’s dragon was infatuated by the Stark girl.

Grey Worm did not pretend to know or understand the politics of the two houses and their history, but all he could gather from the Imp and from Missandei was that it was Arya’s aunt and Khalessi’s brother that had started the war that raged through the seven kingdoms.

It had caused for Khalessi and her brother to be stolen away from the seven kingdoms and bought across the narrow sea.

But now the houses were united. House Stark and House Targaryen. Arya Stark pledging her fealty to Khalessi and to her cause.

“Grey Worm, we need to burn her body. Could you please arrange it?” Arya asked him, looking as if she didn’t just kill a woman just moments before.

“Yes, my lady.”

Arya made a face at his response, muttering under her breath.

“When you get through with that, my brother wishes to meet with you.”

“Yes, my lady.” 

He watched as a muscle in her jaw jumped as she gritted her teeth.

“One more time, Grey Worm, one more time.” She threatened, holding up the dagger that just pierced the witches’ stomach.

“Yes, my lady.”

Cursing the young girl snarled very much like how her wolf did, spun on her heel and stormed back into the room of her brother’s muttering about stupid promises and stupid unsullied.

Grey Worm allowed a rare smile to tilt his lips as he watched her go.

Yes, he sure did like, Arya Stark.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Arya talk.

Jon blinked his attention on the silent man standing in front of him taking in his rigid stance, his blank face and the sword by his side.

The Unsullied. His little sister had appeared from out of nowhere with a member of the Unsullied by her side and claiming fealty to – _**Daenerys Targaryen?**_

What in seven hells?

“So let me get this straight.” He said, never taking his eyes off the warrior in front of him. Jon couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated by the man. He stood rigid before him, clothed in a light weight fur to protect him from the cold, although Jon didn’t know how he – or his sister – could not feel cold considering the lightness of their robes. Arya’s one was barely thick enough to ward off the cold indoors, let alone for her to wear it outdoors. And the Unsullied’s robe was even thinner.

  
But the man, Grey Worm, his sister called him, continued to draw his attention. No facial hair, cold blank gaze. Scowling demeanor.

“He is a member of the Unsullied” Jon continued. “Bought and freed by Daenerys Targaryen whom you have sworn fealty to but you came back to Westeros – from Bravos across the narrow sea - on the word of another Red-Woman who spoke to you of my death.” He said the words slowly as if to try and formulate his sentence correctly.

“Yes.” His sister, his baby sister, confirmed as she stood beside the soldier. She was still short. That much was evident as she stood beside the unmoving man and only came up to his shoulder. Still had the same long dark hair and the same piercing grey eyes of their father. But whereas when she was a child there was a hint of what her beauty could be like, here, standing in front of him was the beauty that had been promised.

  
Those long, sharp features had filled out and settled into a beautiful display of high cheekbones, full lips and smooth, olive toned skin. Her eyes, those grey eyes that he shared with her, that were the eyes of their father’s held secrets that she had yet to reveal.

And his heart ached for what she might have gone through. He hadn’t protected her. Like he hadn’t protected Bran. And Rickon. And Sansa. What kind of brother did he claim to be if he could not protect his younger siblings?

“But the Unsullied are slaves!” Samwell Tarly, his maester, commented, eyes wide and cheeks flushed red as he looked at the unsmiling soldier and then at Jon. “Slavery is prohibited in the Seven Kingdoms. You could end up in very big trouble Lady Arya! You could –“

Cold grey eyes settled on Sam causing his words to stutter to a stop and Sam to take an instinctive step back.

Jon’s lips quirked. It seemed as if his sister had gained the ability to shut a man up with just a look.

“Grey Worm is considered a free man, Maester. He is here because he chooses to be.” She told him firmly, face impassive. “And as I have told you a number of times over the past few days, I am no lady.”

“Apologies my lad – I mean Arya?” Sam choked on his sister’s name. “But – but –“

“It’s a little much to take in such a short space of time, my lady.” Ser Davos Seaworth rumbled from beside him, looking at her from under heavy brows.

Arya turned those cold grey eyes on the reformed smuggler, those eyes narrowing slightly.

“You saying the words does not change the fact that you were born Arya Stark of House of Stark, my lady. And I am a man with too many years behind him to change what I have been taught to do. What I have been raised to do. You are a lady, and so I will call you my lady.” The onion knight stated firmly staring back at his sister and refusing to be intimidated by her glare.

Hells, Jon were honest with himself, he was intimidated by his sister’s glare. There was a cold detachment to that look. As if she could and would kill everyone and walk away without looking back.

“And I will continue to say that I am no lady. I have not been a lady in the traditional sense of the word for a very long time, Ser Davos.” She told him quietly causing the older man’s to frown at her serious tone.

Jon continued to stare at his sister, wondering not for the first time what she had been through these past few years.

Opening his eyes two days ago and seeing his baby sister’s face had made him almost weep with joy. He had ignored the fact that there were others in the room, ignored the fact that Ghost and Nymeria stood ready to attack Melisandre should she move an inch. Ignored the fact that he was almost naked save a small blanket that saved his modesty. Instead Jon swept his sister, his baby sister, up into his arms and hugged her. Dragged her fully into his arms and almost squeeze the life out of her.

  
But as the days passed Jon began to notice that this woman was no longer his little sister. At least not the little sister that he had once played with.

Her childish passion and exuberance was replaced with iron self-control. She barely spoke to anyone who wasn’t him or her companion and never went anywhere without Nymeria or Ghost by her side.

And she was always watching. Watching as Ser Davos came and went as he pleased. Watching as Sam came and informed Jon quietly that Edd and the others had captured those brothers that had betrayed him.

Always watching his sister. Watching with those piercing grey eyes that had seen many a thing.

He needed to know what she went through. Needed to know that his little sister was still there behind this cold woman with his father’s eyes.

“You have been gone for many years sister. No one had seen you since Kings Landing. What happened to you?” Jon asked.

“Many things brother.” She told him cryptically. Jon frowned.

“Why return now, my lady. What made you come home now?” Ser Davos asked her.

“Because it was time. My life, my travels have all prepared me for what is to come. There is a war coming our way. A war that we must be prepared for. “she paused, her gaze encompassing them all before settling on Jon’s. “Daenerys arrives on our shores in but a few moons. She arrives with an army of Dothraki warriors, an army of Unsullied soldiers and her three dragons. She arrives to claim her rightful place.”

“What makes her think that the seven kingdoms is hers by right?” Ser Davos asked her, his face serious. “For me there is no one more deserving that this man here.”  
Jon almost grimaced at the man’s declaration. He never wanted to be King. All Jon ever wanted was to be a Stark.

“Daenerys has promised the north to the Starks.” She told them. “As long as we align ourselves with her the North is ours.” She finished her eyes on her brother.  
There was something she wasn’t telling them.

“In exchange for what, sister?” he asked her after a pause. “What have you promised Daenerys Targaryen in exchange for her releasing the north to the Starks?”  
Something flickered over her face as she met his gaze.

“Nothing of great importance.” She told him genially.

Jon didn’t believe her.

“So you came back to secure the Dragon Queen’s claim.” He asked her, one brow raised.

“And to take back Winterfell. For our brothers and our sister. We need to claim what is ours.” She told him, her gaze unwavering. But there was something more.

Something in those eyes that hinted a little more.

And he knew that she wouldn’t say anything in front of people she did not trust.

“Leave us.” He commanded to the others, his eyes never leaving his sister.

Davos gave a respectful bow of his head obeying almost immediately. Sam scuffled slowly after the reformed smuggler his eyes drifting between Jon and his sister.

The Unsullied though, he waited.

“Arya.” Jon said quietly giving her a pointed look.

Arya sighed turning slightly, softly speaking to the other man in another language that had him shaking his head stubbornly.

Jon watched as her eyes narrowed as she said something again the words sounding so natural on her tongue it was as if she were born to it.  
Grey Worm again shook his head to whatever Arya said to him and Jon saw for the first time his little sister from his childhood.

Her narrowed stare turned into a glare as she grabbed the man by the arm and whispered something fiercely in his ear.

It was the first time in two days that Jon had seen her lose some semblance of cool. Where there was an actual emotion of her face. Even if that emotion was irritation.

Grey Worm scowl deepened as he stared down at her before nodding, abruptly leaving without giving Jon another glance.

“Talk to me.” Jon demanded pointing to the chair on the other side of the table.

“About what.”

“What is it that you have promised to this dragon queen that has her agreeing to give us the North?”

Arya sat her eyes staring into his, contemplating.

“I have agreed to stay on at Kings Landing. To be a part of her Kings Guard and also a part of her council.” She told him quietly. “To have a Stark on her council tells the people of Westeros that the past no longer matters. She already has a Lannister in the form of Tyrion Lannister. And now she has me. The Targareyn’s, The Starks and the Lannisters. Working together, despite their past.”

Jon took a deep breath watching his sister closely.

“Gods, Arya. Do you realize the life you’ve committed yourself to?” Jon asked, leaning forward his eyes intense. “Do you really know what this means?”

“I know what it means Jon. I haven’t gone into this blindly.” She leaned forward, those grey eyes intense. “Let’s be honest here. I’m not suited to marry some Lord and play lady to his castle. That wasn’t me when I was younger and it’s not me now.” She paused, staring at him. “I know the reason why you came back, Jon. Why the gods allowed you to return to us.” She licked her lips glancing away. “The Red Woman that is with Dany is a different type of powerful. It’s not only her that can see things into the flames. Her power allows others to do as well.” She stared at him. “I saw you. And father and Robb. I saw and heard what they told you.” She leaned back in her seat, staring at him. “The Red Woman – Kinvara is her name – has foretold of a bigger war we must face. A bigger war we must fight. Not just between us and Bolton. Not even between Dany and those at Kings Landing. You know which war I’m talking about and you know you can’t do that alone. Neither can Dany.” She told him.

Jon sighed rubbing his face in weariness.

“People are talking about how I must fight. How I must do this. How I must do that. I have nothing, Arya. Nothing. No men to fight with me, no weapons for those nonexistent men. How am I supposed to fight a war when I have nothing?”

“You have done what no one else has ever done, Jon. You have fought against and fought WITH the wildlings. You have their trust. Their loyalty. You can unite the North –“

“I’m a bastard Arya. They will be more likely to listen to your guard out there than me.” He told her indicating his head towards the door where he knew Grey Worm stood.

“You have Stark blood running through your veins. Legitimized or not, no one can take that away from you. You inspire loyalty –“

“What loyalty. My men – my brothers just tried to kill me two days ago.”

Arya waved a hand dismissing his argument.

“A few men out of many.” She told him. “I can guarantee you that if you were to go out and ask the men of Castle Black to fight - they will. The same as the wildings. First we claim back Winterfell.” She paused. “We claim back what’s ours. Our sister included.”

“So the rumors are true. He has Sansa?” he asked raising his head to stare at her again.

Arya nodded her face softening ever so slightly.

“I’ve heard tell that our sister was able to escape Kings Landing after Joffrey was poisoned. She was secreted away to the Vale only to be married off to Bolton to secure his claim to Winterfell.”

Jon rubbed his forehead feeling a headache coming on.

“I had hoped it was a lie. That the woman claiming to be our sister was an impostor.”

“Unfortunately no. It wasn’t.”

Jon sighed eyeing Arya again.

  
“So we take back Winterfell and rescue our sister. How? Bolton has too many men to count. Even if I could ask the wildlings and the men of the black to follow me. Bolton’s men still outnumber us.”

“We seek for those who are still loyal to House Stark. Look to the Reeds, the Mormonts, and House Karstark first. Then to the other Houses. And as for Winterfell. Who knows its secrets better than us? Better than us Starks?”

Jon continued staring at her, tapping his fingers on the desk in front of him.

“Winterfell hold many secrets that no one knows of. No one but us. Tunnels we use to play in as kids. Tunnels that lead in and out of the castle.” She returned his gaze her face blank once more. “We go in and take back Sansa. Take back our sister. And then we fight.”

“How do you propose we do that? We –“he pointed at himself and then at her. “ – we can’t go walking around Winterfell. Our faces are too recognizable.”  
Arya shrugged, a knowing smirk crossing her face.

“Leave that to me. You rally support –“she placed her hands on the desk in front of her, pushing herself to her feet. “- I will go and get our sister.”

“Arya – “Jon reached out and caught her hand, squeezing it slightly. “- just – be careful. Please. I just got you back. I can not lose you again.”

Arya smiled at him, patting him on the hand.

“Do not worry, brother. I will return. With our sister. That is a promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies about the long wait! Had writers block initially and then there was flood of ideas which I had to go over, re go over and then finally post! But to make it up Chapter 4 will be out either tomorrow or the next day. Promise!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Sansa reunite

Arya ignored the scuttling of the rats as she and Grey Worm made their way through the darkened tunnels that lead to her Aunt Lyanna’s tomb within the Crypts of Winterfell.

Rats, cobwebs and stale air. The smells and images of happier times. Of her and Bran being chased by Robb and Jon through these very tunnels. Laughter renting the air around them as Robb would pounce on Bran and Jon on her and then their older brothers would tickle them until they screamed with laughter. These tunnels were only known by the four Starks kids. Sansa wouldn’t have been caught dead in these tunnels and Rickon had been too young at the time.

But they had fun when they were younger. When life was much simpler. Easier. When her parents were still alive.

“We’re here.” She told Grey Worm quietly, as they came up to what looked like a dead end. Robb had discovered the fake wall when he was only 10 winters, sharing his secret with Jon. When Arya had turned seven winters both Robb and Jon had pulled her in on the secret along with Bran. “Come, help me.” She told her silent companion.

Arya shifted low so that her fingers slipped into the tiny crack of the makeshift wall. Grey Worm obeyed without question, his longer arms above hers as together they moved the wall slowly but surely.

Dust hit her nostrils as she straightened slowly her gaze running slowly over the tomb that housed her aunt for the first time in years. The room was large, intricate carvings of four wolves, one for each wall, all staring down at the stone coffin protectively.

Her Aunt Lyanna.

Said to be beautiful and willful and with a touch of wolf’s blood, people spoke of her in hushed awed whispers.

Her father, Ned Stark, barely spoke of her at all, but when he did there was always a wealth of emotion behind his words.

When Arya was a child she used to come here when things got too much for her. When Sansa and Jeyne’s teasing got a little too cruel or when her mother’s scolding got a little too much. It seemed as if this was the only place she could find her peace, where she wasn’t judged on being different. Where it felt as if only her Aunt understood what she was going through.

Arya moved forward slowly running her hand over the coffin with reverent affection wishing she had time just to sit with her aunt again. Just to spend time with her.

_**“Lyanna might have carried a sword, if my lord father had allowed it. You remind me of her sometimes. You even look like her.”** _ She remembered her father telling her that when she was younger and there had been such resignation in his voice that Arya had almost apologised for it.

Pushing the memory from her mind, she patted her aunt’s coffin before continuing on to the door that lead into the Winterfell crypts.

“Do you remember what we agreed?” she asked her companion in Low Valyrian. He nodded stiffly his eyes shifting over her unfamiliar face.

She was Beth this time. Rich brown hair, pale features, high cheekbones, dark brown eyes. Her disguise in getting into Winterfell and finding her sister.

Grey Worm himself was disguised. Another little gift from Kinvara. Grey Worm wore a ring that disguised his true appearance. The man in front of her looking nothing like the Grey Worm she knew. The man in front of her looking like a true northerner. Pale skin, black hair, dark eyes, stocky build.

“Good, we need to find out more about their forces. How many men they have, their horses and the weapons. While you do that, I find my sister. We meet back here when you hear Nymeria’s howl.”

“Yes, my lady.” Even his voice had changed. No longer a heavily accented voice of a Unsullied slave but that of a northerner.

“And Grey Worm?” Arya said sweetly, glaring at him for the ‘my lady’ title. “Don’t get yourself killed. That is a conversation I do not want to have with Missandei.” She teased him lightly, a small smile tugging on the corners of her mouth.

Grey Worm glared at her, not wanting to comment on his relationship with the beautiful translator.

“And you, Lady Arya – “he emphasised the word lady again drawing at slight narrowing of her eyes. “– you be careful too. The Khalessi will be most upset with me should you die. Or get hurt. Or get caught. Do not lose your temper.” He reprimanded, his eyes narrowing as he glared at her. “Remember what I told you. Do not kill anyone and leave bodies behind. Not unless you have to.”

Arya made a face at him before as she peered out to the darkened halls of her family crypt, her gaze deliberately missing the tombs of her father, her mother and brother. No statue had been resurrected for her parents or her brother. But once they claimed back Winterfell she would make sure they received what they deserved.

Departing from her companion Arya headed towards Sansa’s rooms where it was rumoured that Bolton held her sister prisoner.

Much like Varys had his little birds, Arya had her little whispers within Winterfell. And those whispers had told her that there was limited access to her sister. In fact, only three people were allowed in Sansa rooms. Bolton, a maid called Myranda and a man people called Reek but who she once knew as Theon Greyjoy.

The maid was rumoured to be Bolton’s lover. A jealous and petty creature she was also said to be just as cruel and just as sadistic as her master.

Arya’s little whispers told her that the maid stalked her sister, when Sansa was allowed to walk the grounds. Never straying too far from her, but always just out of Sansa’s sight. Watching her sister like a beast would their prey. Waiting to devour her.

The whispers also told of the muffled cries and pained screams that came from Sansa’s rooms at night and how that very same maid would hover just outside the door, that same creepy little smile never leaving her face.

Arya could only imagine what went on behind those closed doors and Bolton would pay for whatever pain he put her sister through. Tenfold.

“Oi you girl!” a gruff voice shouted causing Arya to stop immediately as she passed the kitchen doors. “Well don’t just stand there, take this up to the great hall. The Lord and Lady would like their food while it’s still hot!” the cook snapped to Arya causing her scramble to obey him. “They also have the Lord’s father and mother up there as well, so make haste! Hurry, hurry!”

He was unfamiliar to Arya, probably the Bolton’s cook, so Arya kept her head low as she gripped the pot of steaming stew.

“Now don’t you be dawdling.” The cook scolded. “You won’t like what the Lord would do to you girl if his food gets to him cold.”

Arya nodded, hurriedly making her way towards the great hall, forcing herself to calm the beating of her heart.

_**Calm as still water**_ , she whispered to herself. **_Calm as still water…_**

Entering the main dining halls, Arya almost stumbled over her feet at the first sight of her sister in years.

If Sansa had been beautiful as a child, now as a woman grown, she was breath-taking. Literally breath-taking. She looked so much like their mother that Arya’s heart ached. Clear unblemished pale coloured skin, those Tully blue eyes filled at this very moment with a resigned sadness, her hair the colour of their mother’s, a rich deep red that contrasted so beautifully with the paleness of her skin. Even seated, Arya could tell her sister had grown tall and she held herself with all the grace and poise of a lady worth her weight in gold.

This was her sister in the flesh. Proud, regal and so achingly beautiful.

But as Arya studied her closely she saw the strain in her sister’s eyes, the tenseness of her jaw and the rigid way she held herself.

Arya also noticed the way Sansa would glare at the man seated next to her, fear and hatred fighting for dominance in her gaze.

Arya forced her feet to move and placed the pot of stew gently on the table. Another servant entered with the freshly baked bread and both Arya and the new servant went to bow and retreat.

“You stay.” The other servant ordered roughly. “They will need someone to serve them.”

Arya bowed, moving to fill the empty plates with food.

Sansa sat beside what only had to be Ramsay Bolton. He was a small man in stature, pale faced, dark haired with piercing light blue eyes and not entirely unattractive. But there was a petulant look stamped on his face as he glared at the older couple that sat across from him, before turning to her sister.

Arya’s heightened senses detected an almost wildness about him. A violence that lingered just beneath the surface clawing to get out. It was there in those eyes of his. The perverse need to inflict pain and carnage on those around him as he scouted for his next victim.

“Well, my beautiful wife to be. Our wedding is soon and we have so much to plan!” he said with almost child-like glee, smiling with mocking tenderness at her sister. ”Why we need someone to give the bride away! Reek!” he crowed banging his hand down on the table and just missing his plate that Arya was filling. “Reek here is the nearest thing to a living kin that you have left. Reek will give you away!”

Sansa shot him a look of distain as Ramsay turned to a man hovering in the shadows.

Arya tensed as the man turned towards them, faced scarred, hair dirty and unkempt a fearful look in his blue eyes, cowering slightly as he stared at Ramsay in shock before shooting Sansa a look of remorse.

“Well, someone has to!” Ramsay smiled, blue eyes gleaming with insanity. “What better person than Reek? The man you grew up with! Good?” he asked Sansa with a hint of steel behind his voice. She barely acknowledged him, instead she turned back to her plate, jaw clenched as she took deep, slow breaths. “Good?” he asked again, those eyes glaring at Theon – Reek – with malice.

Arya’s fingers tightened around the jug of wine as she forced herself to pour her sister a glass, ignoring the need to smash it in the smug fool’s face.

_**Calm as still water,**_ she reiterated to herself. **_Calm as still water._**

“Yes, yes, very good.” the droll tones of Ramsay Bolton’s father, Roose, washed aver her, almost making Arya forget about everything and everyone and killing both father and son right there. In her family’s great hall. In front of her sister.

But no. There was a bigger plan that needed to be put in place. Jon needed to be seen leading the charge in claiming back Winterfell. He needed to rally the support of the other houses. They needed to see that Jon was a commander worth following.

Because if Arya was to give into her basic instincts now and kill both Roose AND his little mistake Ramsay, people would question Jon’s leadership skills. They would question him. And they couldn’t afford to not have the support of the other houses.

“Wonderful!” Ramsay mocked his father slightly, taking a drink from the cup Arya had just poured him.

“We need to talk, Ramsay.” Roose told his son, pointedly, waving Arya away as she began filling his cup. “We need to discuss Jon Snow.”

Arya placed the jug on the table quietly and stepped back into the shadows listening.

“The bastard.” Ramsay dismissed. “What about him? He’s dead!”

“Apparently not.” Roose told him. “Word has it that he is very much alive and that he is gathering support to take back Winterfell.”

Arya kept her eyes on her sister. Watched as Sansa froze, a hopeful look passing over her face before it went blank, shooting Ramsay a side look as if to gain his reaction to the news.

“Then let him come.” Ramsay laughed dismissively. “He cannot hope to beat us. We have his sister, we have an army and we have the north.”

“Do not under estimate Jon Snow, Ramsay. There is a reason why people fear him.” Roose warned his son leaning forward and pointing at him. “He has a wildling army. He has Stark blood running through his veins and the north will more likely support a Stark – even if he is a bastard than they are you.”

Ramsay sneered.

“I have his sister. I have my army. And I have my hounds.” Ramsay snapped, slamming his fist on the table. “I will destroy the bastard and every wildling man, woman and child that align themselves with him. In fact I will just slaughter them all!” he told his father, madness gleaming from his eyes. “And I will capture that bastard and make him watch and every single one of my soldiers will rape his sister. I will make him watch as my dogs devour her and then I will spoon his eyes from his sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Let him come.” He laughed manically, stopping to stare at the look of pure terror on Sansa’s face and ignoring the outraged gasp of his father’s wife. “Oh sweet wife-to-be.” He crooned. “I won’t let them kill you. I need you too much for you to be dead. They will just hurt you. A little.” He told her reassuringly, patting her hand.

Sansa swallowed, fingers gripping her knife tightly as she glared at him, her hatred practically shooting fire at him.

“Now, now, we can’t have that –“Ramsay leaned over and wrestled the knife out of Sansa’s hand, before placing a loving kiss on that same hand. “– it looked like you were wanting to stab me with that dear wife-to-be.”

Sansa glared refusing to say anything.

“Now you haven’t been very nice or very pleasant this day. I’m going to have to send you to your rooms without anything to eat. Reek!” he called out, the mocking smile never leaving his lips as he continued to stare at her. “Take my lovely wife-to-be to her rooms. I will visit her later.” He promised maliciously causing Sansa to blanch in fear.

Theon nodded obediently shuffling towards Sansa’s chair and taking her arm.

Head held high, Sansa ripped her arm out of Theon’s grasp, gathering her skirts and storming from the room, a lame and scarred Theon shuffling after her.

“You girl clean up my wife-to-be’s plate and take it to the kitchen.” He told her waving his hands at the plates beside him.

Arya forced herself to bow, quickly cleaning up the discarded plates and making her way towards the kitchen.

Lips curling she dumped the plates behind one of the statures just outside the great hall, making her way up to Sansa’s rooms. She needed to get her sister out fast. Because the ominous warning in Bolton’s voice did not fare well for Sansa.

Holding back Arya watched as Theon fumbled with the keys to Sansa’s rooms, the man before her so different to the one she grew up with.

Theon of old was overbearing and cocky. Arrogant to the point of being extremely annoying. This man was afraid of his own shadow.

Arya watched as he opened the doors to Sansa’s room and stepped back allowing her to go ahead of him, before shuffling after her.

Moving quickly – so quickly that she slipped into the room without him knowing – Arya disappeared into the shadows, melting into the darkness. He wouldn’t be able to see her. No one would. Not unless she wanted them to.

She continued to watch as he shuffled around the room, ensuring the windows were securely shut and stoking the fires before moving slowly towards the door.

“Theon, wait.” Sansa implored, staring at him beseechingly.

“I’m not Theon milady. I’m Reek.” He mumbled, staring at the floor and creeping closer the doors. He looked like he wanted to escape. As if he wanted to be anywhere but here. Arya’s lips twisted into a sneer.

“Help me.” Sansa implored ignoring his shaky reprimand. “Please Theon.”

“No.” he shook his head vehemently, again refusing to look at Sansa. “You’re to be his wife soon –“

“Theon –“Sansa pleaded, lifting a hand to reach out to him.

“Do what he says, do what he says or he’ll hurt you!” Theon told her strongly, lifting his head to stare at her.

Sansa dropped her hand, her eyes still pleading with the man that they had grown up with. Pleading to find the man that had once been almost like their brother.

“He already hurts me every night.” Sansa told him shakily. “Every night he comes and hurts me. It can’t be any worse.”

“It can milady. It can always be worse.” Theon whispered almost to himself. He shook his head, avoiding her stare again.

Sansa sighed sinking on to the small bed behind her.

“Leave –“she ordered wearily, turning her face away from Theon.

“Milday –“Theon began.

“Leave!” Sansa screamed, causing Theon to jump. Cowering slightly before he moved as quickly as he could towards the door.

“Please milady. Just don’t get him angry. You won’t like him when he’s angry.” He said softly before closing and locking the door behind him.

Sansa watched him go, her body slumping in defeat.

“I remember coming to this room as a young girl.” Arya said quietly after a few moments, watching as Sansa stiffened in alarm. “You use to pretend that you were the lady fair, waiting to be rescued by some handsome prince. I use to pretend that I could rescue myself and would plan elaborate escape routes that would involve me climbing out the window and you threatening to tell mother.”

“Who’s there?” Sansa asked suspiciously, getting to her feet. Arya watched as her sister grimaced touching her side slightly before pulling herself together. “I demand that you show yourself!” Sansa said icily, every bit Catelyn Stark’s daughter.

Arya allowed a small smile to touch her face before took a slow step into the light. But it was not Beth’s face she wore when she showed herself to her sister, it was her own.

Sansa blanched, eyes wide with disbelief as she stared at Arya, mouth dropping open. She dropped clumsily onto the bed, her fingers gripping the fur coverlet as she continued to stare at Arya as if she were a ghost.

“We use to argue, terribly, you and I, vexing our father and irritating our siblings. They couldn’t understand why we could not just get along.” Arya laughed softly. “We both were too stubborn for our own good. Neither wanting to back down. Neither wanting to give in.”

“Arya?” Sansa begged softly, tears forming in those eyes, their mother’s eyes as she continued to just stare at Arya, not moving. “Please don’t let this be a dream.” Sansa cried.

Arya moved swiftly, cupping her sister’s face, her thumbs brushing the tears that ran down her cheeks. Sansa raised a trembling hand to cup hers, closing her eyes as she leaned into her touch.

“This is no dream, Sansa. I am here and I am real.” Arya told her sister resting her forehead on Sansa’s. She could feel Sansa trembling as she gripped the hands that clutched her face tightly.

Sansa threw herself at her sister almost toppling her over and wrapping her in a fierce hug.

Arya could honestly say that this is the first hug the sisters had shared, ever.

“Sansa.” Arya said softly, trying to draw herself away. Sansa shook her head, eyes closed tightly, wrapping her arms around her again, refusing to let her go.

“No. No. No. If I don’t hold on to you, you’ll disappear and then I will find this all to be a dream and then I will wake in my constant nightmare. No. please, just a minute more.” Sansa mumbled, arms tightening around Arya.

“Sansa!”

“No!”

Rolling her eyes Arya tugged hard on Sansa’s braid, causing her older sister to yelp in pain.

“Does that prove to you that I’m not a dream?” Arya asked her sister, staring into her eyes.

Sansa blinked, staring into Arya’s eyes.

“You really are here.” She whispered.

“Aye sister I am. But we have to move. Now.” Arya told her, pulling Sansa to her feet.

“How.” Sansa asked, shaking her head. “We can’t leave; we can’t even get out of this room!”

Arya smiled at her sister as she draped a heavy cloak around her shoulders.

“Every room in our home has a secret, Sansa.” Arya said quietly, moving quickly to the wall opposite the fire place where a Bolton tapestry hung. “Every room has an escape route.” Never taking her eyes from her sister, Arya lifted the mantle and leaned all her weight on the wall causing it to shift ever so slightly.

Sansa’s mouth dropped open as she watched the wall move slightly, making just enough room for the both of them to slip through.

“Hurry Sansa, we don’t have much time.” Arya told her.

“We – I can’t.”

“Sansa!”

“No you don’t understand. “ Sansa shook her head, glancing at the door. “Myranda will be soon. She always comes just after Theon leaves and right before Ramsay to gloat about what Ramsay will do to me. If she notices me gone too soon they may catch us.”

Arya’s eyes narrowed as she stared at her sister.

“This Myranda. How bad is she?” Arya asked her sister softly.

Sansa glanced away from her penetrating stare, refusing to meet her gaze.

“She can be as sadistic and as cruel as Ramsay.” Sansa said with barely a tremble in her voice. Her face however said a whole lot else. “But at least she does not hurt me physically. That alone is Ramsay’s privilege. He does not like other people playing with his toys.”

Arya’s jaw clenched as she stared at the pain on her sister’s face. Yes, Ramsay Bolton would suffer for what he put her sister through.

There was a sound at the door that had both sisters’ freezing. A shuffling of feet, a soft knock on the door and a jangle of keys.

“She’s here!” Sansa whispered fearfully. “She’s early! Theon must of let her know. She can’t find you here. You must hide!” Sansa’s whole body shook as her hands fluttered nervously around her, blue eyes panicked.

Muttering a particularly vile Valyrian curse that would cause for Dany to reprimand her – even though Arya learnt it from her - Arya dropped the tapestry and moved quickly towards her sister.

“Sansa, look at me.” Arya commanded as Sansa continued to look around her in panic. “Sansa! I need you to act normal –“

“But –“ her sister shook her head, eyes pleading with her.

“Sansa” Arya’s voice was a soft bark causing Sansa to jump. “Trust me. Everything will be fine.” Arya promised squeezing her sister’s finger hard before moving backwards and melting back into the shadows of the room. Unseen. Invisible.

Arya watched as her sister took a deep breath to steady herself, pulling herself together like the fighter Arya knew she was before turning towards the door.

“Enter!” Sansa commanded, sounding so much like their mother that Arya grinned a little.

The woman that walked into the room almost seemed harmless. She was a short woman, just a little taller than Arya but definitely shorter than Sansa, skinny with pale features and mousy brown hair.

But Arya just knew that the demure look this woman was trying to give off was just a façade. But when she raised her head to look at Sansa, there was an unbalanced look in those ice green eyes hers as she studied Sansa like she were prey. Her prey.

“What do you want?” Sansa asked the other woman haughtily, watching Myranda with suspicious eyes.

“Now milady don’t be like that.” the shorter woman drawled. “Are we not friends now? After all I’ve come to help you get ready to receive Lord Ramsay tonight.” She purred, her smile all teeth and pure hatred.

Sansa continued to stare at the servant girl like she were nothing but an annoyance to her.

“You want to be pretty and welcoming for your husband-to-be, don’t you milady?” she asked Sansa softly, the smile on her face belying the tone of her voice.

Arya’s lips tilted. If there was one thing Sansa always was, was pretty. Extraordinarily pretty. Which ate at the servant girl. Arya could see it as plain as day. She was jealous not only of Sansa’s position in Ramsay’s life but of her beauty as well.

“I would like to just brush your hair, milady and ready your clothes.” Myranda gave a mocking bow, those crazy eyes never leaving Sansa’s face.

Arya watched as Sansa glanced in Arya’s direction before nodding slightly, moving towards the seat in front of the vanity.

The triumphant glee that exploded across Myranda’s face had Arya clenching her fists. Wait, she whispered to herself. Wait.

Arya watched as the servant girl started undid Sansa’s braid, running her fingers through it almost lovingly.

“You have such beautiful hair, milady. Like the colours of a burning flame. So vibrant. So rich.” Myranda complimented before picking up the brush from the vanity and pulling it through Sansa’s hair.

Sansa remained quiet, watching Myranda closely.

“In fact milady I have to say you are probably the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” She sighed, tilting her head to one side and meeting Sansa’s eyes in the mirror. “But you have to keep him happy.” She told Sansa seriously. “Ramsay gets bored easily. You don’t want him to get bored of you.” She continued shaking her head. “Bad things happen when Ramsay gets bored.” Myranda touched her lips in a fake gasp staring at Sansa. “Oh I’m sorry, milady. But you already know that don’t you?” that slow cruel smile twisted the servant girls lips again as she stared at Sansa, sadistic glee filling her face.

Sansa stared back at her stonily, refusing to be cowered by the other woman’s insanity.

“Poor, sweet little servant girl Myranda.” Sansa drawled, returning Myranda’s smile with a mocking one of her own. “Did you really imagine that he would be with you forever, Myranda? You a servant girl, the daughter of a kennel master and him the declared son of a Lord.” Sansa’s smile widened at the look of rage that crossed Myranda’s face. “And then I came along and ruined it. Your dreams, your silly little girlish dreams.” A cold look came over Sansa’s face as she stood and turned to face the other woman, pulling herself up to her full impressive height. “I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. This is my home and you can’t frighten me.” she finished regally, a slight sneer crossing her sister lips.

Arya never felt more proud of her than at that moment.

“Bitch.” Myranda snarled, seconds before she leapt at Sansa, causing Sansa’s eyes to widen slightly.

But even before Myranda could touch her sister, Arya was there, grabbing the woman by the hair and jerking her back and away from Sansa and slamming her roughly into the floor.

Myranda screeched, eyes widening at the presence of someone else.

“I will have your head, girl.” Myranda hissed, getting to her feet slowly and watching Arya from beneath her brows. “And then I will feed your body to my dogs.” She laughed, moving from side to side with an easy grace of a hunter.

Arya smiled coldly, the look on her face causing the other woman to pause. She had seen that look many times before. With many other kills before. It was one of confused fear as if the hunter now knew that it was now the hunted.

“That’s if you make it out of here alive.” Arya said stoically, prowling towards the rapidly retreating servant girl.

“Who are you? How did you get here?!” she demanded forcing herself to stop and lift her head.

Arya continued to give her that cold assassin smile.

“A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell.” She almost crooned to the other woman, giving her a malevolent smile. “And now a woman must die.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Sorry this took so long everyone, had a bit of trouble trying to tie everything in. Not overly happy with this chapter, but it’s a fill in chapter reuniting the first of the Stark siblings. Also a word of note, many of the characters may be OOC to most who follow both the books and the show, mainly because it fits my story better. In fact I am taking many liberties with the characters and how the story plays out. Thank you for reading!)

Jon sighed; exhausted and utterly spent as he all but collapsed into a chair in the great hall at Castle Black, shooting a tired smile at the young brother who placed plates of food on the table, before he gave Jon an abrupt bow and leaving.

Tormund Giantsbane, Eddison Tollett and Ser Davos Seaworth sat with him all equally as exhausted and all equally as hungry as he was.

His sister had been gone for almost three weeks, slipping out of the castle walls silently with Grey Worm and Nymeria at her side. He missed her. And worried for her. He had just gotten her back and then she left again.

But Arya had her mission. Just like how he had his. Jon just prayed to the gods she had been more successful than him.

The rallying for supporting houses had been dismal at best. There were not too many Houses willing to go up against Ramsay Bolton and his army. The Karstarks and Umbers had all sworn fealty to Bolton, taking with them a large army of men to add to Bolton’s already substantial forces. 

House Glover had refused to even take part in the fight, citing their distaste for the free folk and their anger against Robb for not protecting them against the Greyjoy invasion.

They had a few thousand free folk, a couple hundred Hornwood men and barely 150 men from house Mazin. Jon still had to meet with House Mormont, but unless the Bear Island had more than four thousand men up their sleeve, Jon knew the odds against them were overwhelming.

Edd watched him silently as he ate, ignoring the almost savage way Tormund ripped into his meal beside him.

“What are you thinking, Lord Commander?” Edd asked him.

“We don’t have enough men.” Jon told them honestly, tossing his fork onto the table, appetite gone. “Barely two and a half thousand men compared to what is rumoured to be Bolton’s vast army. I’m sending these men to their deaths.”

“Death comes to all men, sooner or later, my Lord.” Ser Davos told him, quietly. “They were your father’s bannermen, sworn to serve House Stark. They know what is expected of them.”

Jon sighed again, the decision sitting heavy on his mind.

“Stop being such a whiney little bastard, Crow, war is not for the weak.” Tormund told him gruffly, sharp white teeth ripping into the flesh of the chicken in his large hand. “Where there is war there is death.” He swallowed the mouthful of food he had been talking around, taking a drink from his goblet wine spilling from the corners of his mouth.

Edd shook his head, turning back to Jon.

“Those men know the odds.” Edd told him. “You outlined it to them in great detail. And they still joined the cause. Should they die, they do it doing something they can be proud of.” Edd told him bluntly.

“My Lord,” Ser Davos drew his attention. “Winning back Winterfell for your family is not the only reason why this needs to be done.” Ser Davos told him. “For us to defend the North from the White Walkers and defend the South from Bolton, we need Winterfell.”

“So stop being a bloody woman crying about this and that and eat!” Tormund told him, pointing at Jon’s plate with his half eaten chicken leg. “We see the Bear people tomorrow. You need your strength. So start acting like you have a pecker instead of a twat!”

Edd sighed, staring at the Wildling commander.

“When does your sister get back?” Edd asked him, watching as the wildling man continued to shovel food into his mouth like he had not eaten in weeks instead of a few hours. “He’s a lot nicer when she’s around.”

Jon’s lips lifted as both ‘brothers’ watched as the massive red head scowled at them before resuming his eating.

For some odd reason Arya Stark had endeared herself to Tormund Giantsbane in such a way that the massive six foot warrior actually listened when she spoke.  
It had been quite an amazing sight to see, the massive six-foot red-headed warrior nod like an obedient puppy when Arya spoke to him softly just before she left. Jon had watched as they both turned to look at him, before they turned to each other, Tormund bending down from his massive height and Arya tip-toeing to whisper something in his ear.

“I like your sister.” The red-headed man shrugged, scowling at the pointed look Jon gave him. “Not like that, Crow.” He barked, glaring at him. “No I like her fire. Her strength. There is a darkness in her that she has complete control of and she has this amazing ability to calm the most vicious of beasts.” Tormund’s mouth twitched. “– or at least to calm those Thenn fuckers. And that –“he clapped his large hands. “– Crow ,is why I like your sister.” He shrugged. “And it’s a damn sight better looking at her pretty face instead of your ugly one.”

Jon chuckled, shaking his head at his friend. His sister sure had created quite a stir when she was found one morning, with Nymeria and Ghost both by her side eating with some of the leaders of the Thenn, conversing comfortably with them in the Old Tongue. Like most northerners he knew a smattering of the Old Tongue. Just words really. But he couldn’t understand what she was saying to them or what they were saying to her. Whatever it was had the Magmar of the Thenn throwing his disfigured head and roaring with laughter and Arya smirking like they had been friends for years instead of minutes.

The Thenn were considered to be the most brutal among the free folk. Even the other tribes tended to give them a wide berth because they tended to kill now and not even bother to ask questions later.

But somehow, some way, his sister had gotten them to not only agree to fight in the Battle of Winterfell but also to lend their warriors to fight for the Dragon Queen.  
How she did it, Jon did not know, but he was beginning to realize that his little serious had some serious negotiating skills.

“Your sister certainly has a gift.” Ser Davos told him pushing his now empty plate away from him. “We could’ve done well with her negotiating skills when we went to see the other houses.” It wasn’t a reprimand just a statement of fact after the matter.

“Aye we could’ve.” Tormund spoke up, sopping up the gravy on his plate with his bread. “But she said that this is something that you must do yourself, Crow. Show the Houses that you are ready to take back Winterfell. Show yourself worthy to not only them but to those that follow you as well. Plus she said –“

“Quite a long conversation you had with Lady Arya.” Edd said dryly.

“– that they know you. Know what you look like; know where you have been for the past years. They don’t know her, they only know OF her. They are more likely to follow someone they know than someone they know OF –“Tormund frowned, shrugging. “– or some shit like that.”

Ser Davos stared at Tormund, frowning.

“A wise woman, your sister is, my Lord. A very wise woman.”

“Riders! Open the gates! Open the gates!” a voice shouted out, drawing all their attention.

Jon’s heart did a nose dive as he paused for a moment before he pushed himself to his feet, leaving the table abruptly as he made his way to the doors. Edd and Tormund close at his heels.

Coming to a stop, Jon watched as the men of the night’s watch pulled open the Castle gates and three riders came through, Nymeria looping behind them.

He easily recognized his sister’s petite form, resting easily of the massive black Dothraki horse that had sailed with her from the Free Cities. It was a beautiful beast, fierce and strong, untrusting of anyone but his mistress or Grey Worm. But even then the latter got a cold suspicious glare that spoke of death should he put one foot out of place.

Grey eyes clashed with grey as he met her gaze, the cold ice melting slightly as she gave a slight indication to the rider in between her and Grey Worm.  
Sansa.

Jon gripped the railing in front of him as he stared her. She sat hunched over in her saddle, the hood pulled low over her face obscuring his view, body stiff probably from the many hours of riding. Heart in his mouth he turned his attention back onto Arya, desperately searching for something.

Arya pulled her horse to a stop, her gaze meeting his as she handed the reins to one of the stable boys. He couldn’t read her face. Not that he could before, but this time her face was like ice. Cold, unforgiving. 

Watching as she dismounted, Jon finally moved his gaze back to Sansa, noticing that Grey Worm had already dismounted and lifting his sister easily to the ground.  
Suddenly something gripped him as he quickly made his way down the stairs and towards his siblings, watching as Arya nodded her head towards him and Sansa turned, her hood dropping from head.

It was like he was looking into Catelyn Stark's face again after so many years. The blue eyes, the high cheekbones, the porcelain skin, the deep red hair.

He and Sansa never had a close relationship. In fact Sansa only ever called him ‘her bastard brother’ ever since she had been old enough to know what bastard meant. Back then it had been a means to put him in his place. The lesser brother. The unclaimed brother. But back then she had been a child. They both had. Now standing before him was his sister fully grown.

“Sansa.” He croaked, emotion leaking from his voice as he opened his arms.

Sansa quickly threw herself at him, almost toppling him over as she hugged him fiercely, her quiet sobbing heard by only those close enough to hear.  
Jon felt the breath leave his body as another member of his pack mates had made their way back to him. Two down, now two to go.

Opening his eyes, he searched for Arya, noticing she was talking quietly to Tormund, who was nodding his head before he turned to leave. Stopping the man turned back towards his sister, patted her on the shoulder, before turning back to do her bidding.

Jon met his sister’s gaze again watching as a slow smile tilted her lips. Uncaring of the audience he lifted his arm towards her, chuckling as she rolled her eyes before she too joined in the siblings embrace, her hug, almost as tight and as fierce as Sansa’s as both brother and sister, listened to their sister’s sobbing, both brother and sister thankful that their sister was now back in their arms.

:::

This was the first time in what felt like years, actual YEARS where Sansa Stark felt as if she were able to breathe. Where she didn’t have to worry about someone wanting to hurt her, or humiliate her. Or use her for their own gain.

Where she felt as if she was finally safe. Safe from the insanity that was Joffrey Baratheon and Ramsay Bolton. Safe from the machinations of Cersei Baratheon and Petyr Baelish. Just finally safe. To be herself. To not worry about anyone wanting to take something from her. To finally be able to let down her defenses and breathe. 

She had been used as a puppet for so many years by so many different people that she almost didn’t recognize this feeling of freedom.

It was daunting and exhilarating all at the same time.

Sansa closed her eyes, resting her forehead on her upraised knees, the hot water from the bath seeping into her cold skin.

She had spent hours with her brother and sister, relearning things about both her siblings that she had forgotten and even discovering new things about them that had her heart aching.

With Jon he was very much the same serious brother she always had. Looking more like their father than her own true brothers did, with the weight of the world resting so heavily on his shoulders.

But there was a hardness in him that had eaten away at his innocence. A battle weariness that was etched into his features.

He had grown since their last meeting, taller and broader. His hair dark like their fathers and Arya’s, his face pale like a true north-man. But that face bore scars that told of many battles and the darkness of his eyes that spoke of someone who was all too well versed in death.

She had never been kind to Jon growing up. She barely tolerated him and only saw him as her father’s mistake as she had born witness to the hurt and humiliation her mother bore that her husband had not only dishonoured her, but bought that mistake back to Winterfell for her mother to help raise.

So she had followed her mother’s lead by treating Jon less than he deserved.

But she could honestly say that when she saw him for the first time years, all that old pettiness and childishness melted away and when she stepped into her brother’s arms she felt like she was hugging her true born brother and not her father’s mistake.

Sansa sighed, turning her face towards her sister, watching her closely.

And then there was her sister.

Truly her relationship with Arya had been one of squabbles, pettiness and the both of them being too damn stubborn to give in. She could say that she had loved her sister growing up, but she didn’t necessarily like her.

But those nights on the road from Winterfell to the Wall had both sisters’ quietly talking to each other without the pettiness and the jealousies getting in the way. The two Stark sisters finally got to know each other.

The years had changed her sister too. Gone was the out of control wild child with the long Stark features and the permanent scowl.

In her place stood a gorgeously dangerous woman whose calm, controlled manner was a far cry from the rough and tumble child she use to be.

There was an untamed beauty about her sister that made a person look twice. From the fall of her ink black hair to the tone of her sun-kissed skin, Arya was definitely all grown up and definitely a woman of immense beauty.

But like Jon there was a darkness in her as well. One that like their brother spoke of untold evils that changed her little sister from the one she fought with constantly to the sister that had killed Ramsay’s lover without a second thought.

Sansa had watched in horror as her younger sister viciously snapped Myranda’s neck, killing the woman instantly. Watched as Arya dropped her to the ground as if she were nothing and stepped over her prone body like it wasn’t even there.

And her horror didn’t stem from the fact that someone had been killed. She had after all been there the day Ser Ilyen Payne had swung her father’s sword and taken her father’s head.

No, her horror came from the knowledge that her sister – her baby sister – had endured such a life where it was necessary for her to know how to snap a person’s neck and walk away as if it were nothing.

“If I make you uncomfortable, Sansa, I can leave you be.” Arya told her softly, her face and voice void of any judgement. “There are a few wildling women that could come and attend to your needs.”

Sansa jumped eyes flying to her sister’s, so lost in her own thoughts that she didn’t realise those thoughts translated to her face.

“No! I – “Sansa swallowed, reaching out to grab her sister’s hand, sorrowing over the calluses that lined the small limb, the roughness of her skin. “Please stay. I’m sorry.”

Arya frowned at her, lowering herself to her knees both hands cupping Sansa’s face. Her sister’s thumb’s brushed over the slope of her cheekbones in a familiar gesture that had Sansa closing her eyes. Their mother use to do that to Sansa whenever she was troubled or wroth. It was something that would calm her but now made her long for what use to be.

“Don’t apologise Sansa.” Her sister’s voice was so grown up now. Husky, lyrical and so very, very feminine. “I can’t imagine it’s been an easy road for you but you are safe now.” She tilted her face up towards hers, those grey eyes very much like their father’s staring down at her. “Okay. You are safe.”

Sansa nodded, cursing her weakness all of a sudden. She felt like sobbing. As if there was a torrent of emotion balled up inside of her begging to be released.  
Sansa pressed her hands to her mouth trying to stem the flood of emotion but couldn’t and for the first time in an age, Sansa allowed herself to cry. Allowed herself to feel the pain and the hurt and the sadness of these past few years.

She felt slim strong arms surround her and warm soft lips touch her forehead as her sister held her, ignoring the awkwardness of trying to hug her sister in the bath or the fact that she was getting soaked. Arya just held her tightly as Sansa sobbed into her shoulder, clutching at her sister’s tunic.

How long the sisters stayed that way Sansa couldn’t say but by the time Sansa’s sobs had turned into sniffles the water had grown tepid and the suds all but gone.

“Come on.” Arya said softly, drawing back from her. “Let’s get you out of this water before you catch your cold.”

Sansa gave her sister a watery smile.

“It’s supposed to be me taking care of you little sister.” She croaked her voice scratchy from her crying spree.

“Aye, and you soon will. Tonight, this is for you.” Arya gave her a slow smile, their father’s eyes softening and warming a little. “Tomorrow you can be the strong, unbent Sansa we all know and love. Tonight you are the Sansa that just needs a little love a care. Okay?”

Sansa nodded, standing, shivering slightly as Arya wrapped a drying fur she had been warming by the fire around her.

“Get dry and get dressed, Sansa.” Arya told her softly, rubbing the furs up and down Sansa’s arm vigorously. “You should get some sleep. It’s late and we need to be up early on the morrow.”

Sansa reached out grabbing Arya by the hands.

“Stay please.” she whispered, squeezing her sister’s fingers. “I – I don’t think I can be by myself right now.”

Arya nodded, pulling the furs tightly around her sister.

“Together Sansa, we will get over this together.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so they meet....

“That’s Ramsay Bolton?” Tormund asked from beside Edd, his voice disbelieving, as they watched the small group of men ride towards them, the Bolton banner flying high with two larger than average hounds running alongside them.

Those were some big fucking dogs, Edd thought watching them closely. Obviously not as big as the Lord Commanders wolf or even Arya’s, but they were pretty big. And damn intimidating.

Drawing his attention from the dogs to the men, Edd noticed that positioned front and center rode a man who had to be Ramsay Bolton. Riding like some pompous, high-born Lord that he was not born to be.

Ramsay Bolton was a bastard with ideals of grandeur, and thought he was more important than he actually was. But both Lady Sansa and Arya had described him perfectly.

Small in stature, pale skinned, dark hair, that creepy smile. Yes this definitely had to be Ramsay Bolton.

“He don’t look like much.” Tormund grumbled. “Smaller than even you Lord Crow.” He japed at the stoic faced commander who never took his eyes off his enemy.

“Small he may be, Lord Wildling.” Arya told the giant red-head softly, her voice void of emotion as she too watched their enemy ride towards them. Edd’s lips twisted slightly at the name she had given Tormund and that Tormund allowed her to call him that. “But brutality is not confined to the size of one’s stature.” She nodded towards the incoming men, her face cold and emotionless. “That man’s insanity is what makes him dangerous. Means he can be unpredictable. Brutal. My sister is testament to that fact.” She finished and Edd found his gaze drifting towards Lady Sansa who sat silently upon her horse, watching as Ramsay rode closer, watching as her living nightmare came closer and closer.

Edd may not have known what went on during Lady Sansa’s stay with Bolton, but he could only imagine. She tended to flinch around men that weren’t her brother or Arya’s companion. The slight blanching of her features, the tensing of her body. It all spoke of a woman who had suffered brutally at the hands of a man. Suffered at the hands of this man that was riding towards them. 

Tormund bowed his head in apology to both the Stark sisters and again it amazed Edd how differently the wildling commander treated the little she-wolf to almost everyone else. Even to those in his own tribe.

“You don’t have to be here, Sansa.” Jon told his sister softly from the other side of her. “You don’t have to see him so soon.”

“Yes I do.” she stated firmly looking straight ahead, head tilted proudly. “I refuse to allow him to break me again.”

Jon watched his sister closely before nodding and turning towards the incoming party.

It wasn’t long before Ramsay Bolton pulled his party up short only a few feet away. The two hounds with them snarling viciously causing their horses to shift nervously. 

In fact the only horse that seem to pay the hounds no attention was Arya’s Dothraki steed. But then again that beast was used to being around Arya’s dire-wolf, so Edd supposed the two hounds were nothing by comparison.

“My beloved betrothed.” Ramsay smiled, ignoring everyone else and focusing on Lady Sansa. A cruel smile hovered over the man’s mouth, as he smiled knowingly at her. “I have missed you terribly.” He crooned, watching Lady Sansa’s face with an almost rabid fascination. Lady Sansa stared at him eyes cold, head held high, silent and refusing to cower beneath his stare.

Eyes narrowing slightly the short man turned to Jon.

“Thank you for returning my beloved betrothed to me.” he told Jon pleasantly, smiling a creepy little smile. “Now dismount and kneel before me.” he ordered imperiously. “Surrender your army and proclaim me the true Lord of Winterfell and the Warden of the North, and I will pardon you for deserting the Night’s Watch, I will pardon these treasonous people for betraying my house and I will take back your sister as my wife even though she displeased me greatly.”

Suddenly his eyes fell on Arya.

“Oh and look! You’ve bought me another present! And who may you be, wench?” he asked Arya curiously, those crazed eyes raking over Arya with barely disguised interest. 

Edd noticed the way both Jon and Grey Worm tensed.

“A girl is called Arya Stark of Winterfell.” Arya said softly, an enticing smile lingering on her lips that had Ramsay’s eyes lighting up.

“Two Stark sisters, bastard! You are here to give me TWO Stark sisters! For that I will not kill you. Or these fools with you. Now –“he clapped his hands, smiling. “– dismount and kneel before me.” he ordered, his voice hardening. 

Jon continued to stare at him, unflinchingly.

“Come bastard –“Ramsay enticed. “– you don’t have the men, you don’t have the horses and you don’t have Winterfell. Why lead those poor souls to their deaths? Get off your horse and kneel. There’s no need for a battle.”

“You’re right.” Jon told him never taking his eyes off Ramsay. “There’s no need for a battle. Thousands of men don’t need to die. Only one of us. Let’s settle this the old way. You against me.”

Ramsay stared at Jon for but a moment before bursting out into crazed laughter. Around him his men joined in, shaking their head at Jon and his audacity.

“You would like that wouldn’t you bastard?” beside him his two hounds continued to snarl viciously, their eyes never leaving Jon, watching him like he were their next meal. “Me and you, fighting to the death. But the stories that surround you here in the north say that you are most likely the strongest swordsman living. Would I beat you?” he shrugged, again with that creepy little smile. “Probably not. But what I do know is that my army would beat your army. So let me think which one I would go for.” He tapped his chin mockingly. “I’m going to have to go with no. Our armies will fight it out. I have six thousand men, you have what? Not even half that?” he mocked.

“Aye you have the men.” Jon looked at the men that had gathered with Ramsay, his eyes falling on Lord Harald Karstark and Lord Smalljon Umber. “Men that had at one time sworn fealty to my father. But will these men still fight for you if they knew you would not fight for them? If they knew that you would leave them in the middle of battle just to save your own hide?”

Edd watched as both the Lords glanced at each other before turning back to Jon, their faces unreadable.

Ramsay smiled, pointing a finger at Jon.

“Oh he’s good.” he told his men jovially. “Very good. But these men know who will win this battle. Remember I have the men, I have the horses and I have the weapons. And not only that I have my hounds –“he held out both his hands beside him indicating to the two salivating hounds beside him. “I have over a hundred hounds waiting to be fed. Waiting for the taste of you and your men, bastard. They have a taste for flesh, my hounds and I have been starving them just for this battle. And they listen to only me.” he said, giving them a mocking bow.

“A girl wonders if they do only obey a man.” Arya commented softly, drawing Bolton’s attention, those grey eyes she shared with her brother, dark with some untold emotion. “Does a man speak the truth?” she stared curiously at the two dogs who seem to settle under her gaze.

“Why yes, wench. Shall I show you?” Ramsay tapped his chin again, his eyes falling on Grey Worm, not noticing that his dog’s attention was now on Arya and not on anyone else. “How about him!” he pointed at Grey Worm, who sat silently on his horse beside Arya. “Yes him, I don’t like how he looks at me. Jarkart, Gorestirk –“ both dogs snapped out of whatever trance they were in and started growling again. “- attack!” he commanded pointing a silent Grey Worm.

Edd felt his stomach drop as both hounds turned to leap towards the motionless man.

“Stop!” Arya snapped out, her voice so strong and so commanding that both hounds did as she commanded immediately. 

Edd watched unable to stop his mouth from falling open as both hounds who had just moments before been snarling and barking at them viciously lowered themselves to the bellies, their heads bowed in submission.

“Attack!” Ramsay roared, pointing to Grey Worm again.

Edd watched as Arya dismounted, never taking her eyes off Ramsay she moved towards both hounds.

“Ar –“ he began until Tormund kicked him in the leg, shaking his head.

Smiling serenely Arya lowered herself beside the hounds holding her hands out to them, allowing them to lick her hands and Edd watched in fascination as they crept closer to her, seeking her touch.

“It seems to a girl that a man called Ramsay SNOW –“she laid emphasis on the man’s true last name, causing the man to mottle with rage. “- has lost his command over his hounds.”

“What the fuck have you done to my hounds, cunt!” suddenly all sense of propriety left the enraged man as he moved his horse towards her only to stop short when both hounds, the same hounds that he had claimed as his, turned on their master, snarling at him.

“A girl does not think her new friends like a man anywhere near a girl, Ramsay Snow.” She said languidly, laughing at the red-faced man glaring with disbelief at her and his hounds.

“Cunt –“

“Call my sister a cunt one more time, Ramsay and I will forget all proprieties of war and kill you and your men here and now. And I will make sure that YOUR death is a long torturous one.” Jon promised the man, smirking at him.

“Fuck you, bastard!” Ramsay screamed. “Jarkart, Gorestirk to me!” he ordered. Both dogs stayed where they were ignoring their raging master.

Arya laughed, her smooth sultry voice washing over all those that were there. From the corner of his eye Edd saw Grey Worm flinch slightly at that laugh. The man obviously knowing what was to come next.

“How about we do this?” Arya asked Ramsay smoothly. “A man called Ramsay Snow, dismounts, a man called Ramsay Snow kneels and proclaims a girl’s brother Jon the true Lord of Winterfell and warden of the North and a girl allows a man to ride back, pack a man’s things, with all a man’s men and leave Winterfell alive and well.” She stood to her full height, and even though she was a short thing, that confidence made her seem so much taller, so much larger. So much more dangerous.

“Fuck you, wench!” Edd wondered if Bolton knew he had switched back to wench from cunt and that he unconsciously heeded Jon’s warning. “When my men win this battle, I will make sure I kill you first!” Ramsay sneered. “But only after I make you watch me fuck and kill your sister!”

Arya shrugged unmoved by the man’s ranting before turning to Lord Karstark and Lord Umber.

“My Lords, what say you?”

Both men look at each other then looked at Ramsay.

“You won’t win, bitch. There is no way you can win.” Lord Karstark sneered, glaring at Arya.

Arya turned that deadly smile on him.

“Don’t say a girl did not warn you.” She told them regretfully. “A girl’s father truly did respect and trust you. You were his bannermen after all.” She lifted her shoulders again. “Men he would have gone to war for, men he would have died for. And for you to betray him and his memory?” she shook her head. “So be it.” She whispered, bowing her head at the both of them. Looking down at the two hounds at her feet she drew their attention.

Pointing at Lord Karstark she whispered, “Attack.”

Edd barely had time to blink as both hounds immediately leaped for the man, causing his horse to rear in fright. Karstark slammed into the ground on his back as both hounds continued to viciously tear the man apart his screams renting the air.

Ramsay and his men struggled to control their horses, with Ramsay screaming out orders for his hounds to stop. 

Edd shot a glance to those around him. Tormund was grinning like a maniac while trying to control his own horse. Grey Worm stared at the scene unmoved. Ser Davos grimaced slightly but said nothing. And Lady Sansa and Jon stared at Ramsay. Their faces cold and unrelenting.

“You bitch -!” Ramsay screamed.

“Wait for it.” Arya whispered, holding up a finger. “Hounds, stop.” Unlike when it was said before, there was no command in her voice, instead she whispered it enticingly, seductively. But the hounds heard anyway. They stopped immediately, panting in their exertion, their muzzles and their bodies covered in blood. Lord Karstark’s blood.

“Hounds, to me.” They obeyed immediately, moving to stand beside Arya, their big bodies vibrating. 

Arya continued to smile at Ramsay.

“Hounds, sit.” She told them softly and they did.

“Scared yet, Ramsay.” It was the first time since Bolton had arrived that Lady Sansa had spoken. But when she did her voice was strong, confident, even slightly mocking.

Ramsay started, turning his glare on her.

“Enough of these games. We shall meet you on the battle field, bastard. My six thousand men to your tiny little army.” He tugged the reins of his horse viciously, his eyes falling on Arya. “And you, wench. I’ll make sure my chambers are ready for you.” He smirked.

Arya gave him a mocking bow.

“A girl looks forward to meeting a man in his chambers and giving a man the gift of the many faced god.” She raised her head, raising her hand to touch her forehead and slowly passing it down her face.

Ramsay blanched stunned as he stared at her.

“Myranda.” He whispered staring at Arya’s now changed face.

“Valar moghulis.” She whispered back, smirking.

:::

Tormund Giantsbane had decided pretty early on that he liked the Lord Crow’s little she-wolf sister. He liked that fact that she was a dangerous little thing wrapped up in a beautiful little package. Like that she treated him and the rest of the free folk as if they were equals, and especially like that she had a vicious streak almost a league wide and wasn’t ashamed by it.

Learning that the Lord Crow had a little sister that was more vicious than Styr the Magmar of the Thenn, was more dangerous than him yet had more self-control than The Lord Crow himself made Tormund happy that he was on her side and not on Ramsey’s.

And the way she dealt with Ramsay and his men, had Tormund grinning like a fool. Yes, he definitely liked the she-wolf. Probably even more than he like her brother.

“They have more than six thousand men.” Grey Worm, the usually silent soldier told the group surrounding the table that was covered with maps and placements of Winterfell.

There were just the seven of them in the make shift war room at their encampment a few leagues from Winterfell. Lord Crow, the old man, Edd, Lady Sansa, the she-wolf’s soldier, the she-wolf and himself. The Crow’s war council.

He at first wondered why Lady Sansa was there, being that she was more lady than warrior, but as the little she-wolf said, her sister knew things about Ramsay that no one else would.

“Four thousand horses spread over Winterfell, House Karstark and House Umber. Ramsay was correct in saying that he has over a hundred hounds and they have more weapons than we have men.” He stopped and ran his gaze over each of them, stopping at the she-wolf. “It’s not going to be easy.”

“Nothing worth fighting for is ever easy, my friend.” The little she-wolf told him, shooting him a small smile. The silent soldier nodded taking a step back and Tormund had a feeling he was watching some unspoken conversation between the two.

“After what Ramsay witnessed with Arya one would hope he’d back down.” Edd muttered, frowning over the maps in front of them.

“That’s not his way.” The old man spoke up. “He knows the North is watching. Plus what happened would be a blow to his ego. He is use to instilling fear in everyone around him. It’s what he feeds off. What he’s use to. He will be smarting about what happened. He won’t back down. His ego won’t allow him to.”

“Then we use his arrogance against him.” The crow told them, placing both hands on the table and staring down at the maps. 

“Come again?” Tormund asked.

“Ramsay won’t want to admit that he lost control of the hounds he boasts about. Even to himself.” The quiet voice of the crow’s red-headed sister cut through the men, drawing them into silence.

She was such a beauty, the crow’s sister. Actually both sisters were in entire different ways.

The little she-wolf was all dark hair, grey eyes and a dangerous little smile. This one was tall, regal, elegant. A true highborn lady that he and his brothers would tell bawdy japes about and to.

But for some odd reason Tormund found himself holding back with this one. And it had nothing to do with the fact that the little she-wolf broke every bone in a Thenn warrior’s hand for daring to touch her sister without her consent.

He had arrived to deliver Tormund a message before spying the red-headed beauty. And like the arrogant fucker his tribe was known to be, he had cornered Lady Sansa, touching her hair and leering down at her. Feeding off her fear.

Before Tormund or the Crow could interfere the little she-wolf had appeared from nowhere, grabbing the man by the back of his neck and literally flinging him away from her sister. Despite her smaller size the girl was packed with power.

Tormund had rushed to deal with the Thenn only to have the little she-wolf’s silent soldier step in front of him, shaking his head. Tormund bared his teeth at him only to have him say one word.

“Watch.”

“A man touches a girl’s sister like a man has a right to.” The little she wolf, commented watching the man intently. “A man does not have that right.” 

“You may have my Magnar’s respect, bitch but you don’t have mine!” the man sneered, moving towards her.

Tormund watched as the little she-wolf smiled before she met him half-way, her fists moving hard and fast, connecting with his throat, his chest and finally his belly, causing a man who had been trained by Styr himself to fall to his knees in pain.

“A man should know something about a girl.” The little she-wolf purred in the Old Tongue, probably because she knew that her brother or her sister would not understand her. “A girl was trained in Braavos to be a killer.” She crouched down beside the gasping man, who was clawing at his throat. “The House of Black and White trained a girl for many years to know how to kill a man.” She ran her gaze over his rapidly reddening face, smiling. “A girl knows how to kill so a man feels no pain, or to make a man die slowly. To steal a man’s ability to breathe, so that a man’s death is an agonising one.” the cold detached look entered her gaze as she continued to stare at him. “A girl should let a man die slowly, or mayhaps a girl shall kill a man fast.” She gave the gasping man a deadly smile. “- or mayhaps a girl shall let you live.” She pretended to contemplate her decision. 

“Arya.” The crow warned softly causing Tormund to scowl at him. He was just beginning to enjoy the show!

“A girl shall make a decision that a man should not make a girl regret later. A girl will let a man live.” Her fist struck out again, throat, chest and belly and the Thenn drew a deep breath, coughing as air finally hit his lungs. “But just in case –“she grabbed the man’s hand and preceded to break every bone in the man’s hand causing him to scream in pain.

Lady Sansa had covered her ears at the screams and the crow stared at his sister, his look sad and resigned.

Apparently the little she-wolf was what they called a faceless man. Hired assassin that served someone called the many-faced god. Whatever the hell she was, Tormund loved it!

“Ramsay is arrogant to a fault.” Lady Sansa said meeting each and every one of their eyes. “He believes he is untouchable. Unbreakable and unbeatable. His arrogance will be his weakness.” She shot a look at the little wolf, who gave her an encouraging nod.

“So what’s the plan?” Edd asked. “How do we win a war against such odds?”

“We draw him to us.” The old man told them. “We fight on our terms, not theirs.” He pointed to some area on the map with his stubby fingers. “We draw them here where the ground is softer and their horses will be rendered unstable. We are digging trenches along our flanks so that they won’t be able to hit us from the side, only head on. If we control as much of this battle as we can, we may have the upper hand.”

“This hill is where the majority of our archers will be –“ the Crow told them pointing to some line on the map. “- it’s far enough from their archers – hopefully – but close enough for ours to shoot their foot soldiers.”

“And your wolves?” Edd asked him softly, his gaze bouncing between the three siblings.

“They will be there.” The little she-wolf confirmed her eyes meeting Edd’s.

“Okay. Let’s get some sleep.” The old man told them, frowning at them all. “Tomorrow is a big day. We need you all sharp tomorrow.”

Edd and the old man nodded at both ladies as they exited. 

Grinning Tormund sauntered towards the door, placing a large hand on the little she-wolf’s shoulder as he passed.

“Will you fight with us tomorrow, she-wolf?” he asked her, ignoring the scowl for the she-wolf’s brother.

“Aye, Lord Wildling, I shall fight tomorrow.”

Tormund nodded, satisfied.

“Good.” he nodded, grinning down at the tiny woman. “Now –“ he clapped his hands, rubbing them together in anticipation. “ - I am going to go and find me some ale to drink and a warm willing body to f –“he broke off abruptly, grimacing when he remembered Lady Sansa was still in the room. “ – be warm with.” he finished lamely, ignoring the chuckle from both the she-wolf and her brother. “On the morrow, little wolf. Lord Crow. Lady Sansa. And you –“he waved at Grey Worm, making his way out the door, his mouth thirsty for that ale and his arms hungry for that warm body.

The remaining four stayed silent each lost in their own thoughts.

Jon felt – weary. Tired. Exhausted.

Frowning down at the maps in front of him, he wondered if there was anything else they needed to do to prepare themselves for the upcoming battle. Anything that he may have left out.

“Grey Worm, if you please.” Arya asked her companion softly and Jon raised his head in time to see him incline his head at Arya, bow to Sansa and leave without giving him a second glance.

Jon did not take it personally though. He had come to realise that the man barely spoke or acknowledged anyone but Arya and as of lately Sansa. And he only spoke to Jon when needed.

“I still think we need to rally more troops.” Sansa told them staring down at the maps. “We don’t have nearly enough men to help fight.”

“Aye, and I agree.” Jon said, moving to stand beside her. “But we don’t have any more people to help fight. This is what we have.”

“Then we wait.” Sansa told him, determinedly. “Until we have a larger force.”

“Sansa –“Jon sighed.

“We need to wait!” Sansa snapped angrily and Jon turned to see the frustration and the grief written all over her face. “We need to rally more troops, gather more forces! This can wait!”

“It can’t –“

“It can!” Sansa retorted before Jon could finish. “I refuse to lose you and Arya when I just got you back. I refuse to be taken back but a sadistic maniac who will torture each and every man he gets his hands on. I refuse to allow him to hurt Arya the way he hurt me!” the last part was screamed and Jon stared at her, stunned.

Dammit, sister, what did that bastard put you through? He asked her silently as he stepped forward; ignoring her half-hearted attempts to push him away he hugged her, his eyes meeting Arya’s over Sansa’s shoulders.

Her face was expressionless but her eyes blazed with a fury that could scorch.

“Please Jon, let’s just wait.” Sansa asked him softly, clutching at his tunic almost desperately.

“Sansa –“he moved back from her, cupping her face and Jon idly noticed that his sister was slightly taller than him. She had grown so much in the years they had all been apart.

“This can’t wait.” He told her. “The time to attack is now.”

Sansa clutched at his hands, her eyes desperate.

“Then I will contact Petyr at the Vale –“

“No.” Arya interrupted and both Sansa and Jon turned their heads towards their younger sister.

“But he has the men we need. Men that can fight.” Sansa insisted.

“But at what cost, Sansa?” Arya asked her softly. Sansa flushed avoiding Jon’s curious stare.

“If it gets us the men we need –“Sansa began.

“No.” Arya shook her head. “Out of the question. We are not handing your over to that - man.” A muscle in Arya’s jaw ticked as she glared at Sansa.

“Wait, what’s happening? Why would we hand you over to Littlefinger?” Jon demanded feeling left out of the conversation.

It was something that happened a lot when it came to Arya. She was forming all these little secret alliances and had all these whispered conversations with so many different people that Jon felt confused and frustrated.

Both sisters fell into silence, Arya staring at Sansa and Sansa staring back at her sister pleadingly.

“Because that is what he would demand.” Arya told Jon, her eyes never leaving Sansa’s flushed face. “He would want Sansa’s hand in marriage as payment for him sending the knights of the Vale.”

“No!” Jon shook his head. “Not happening. No way no how.”

“It’s the only way to get more men!”

“No!” Jon snapped at Sansa, glaring at her for even thinking about exchanging her freedom for more men. “You have been through enough. I refuse –“he glanced at Arya. “– WE refuse to let you barter yourself so that we can get more men to fight. We will fight this war with the men we have.”

“You don’t understand.” Sansa whispered. “Ramsay’s men are like the hounds he’s so proud of. Vicious, mean without an ounce of compassion. They will tear through our forces. They will take you both from me!” she told them. “If I were to marry Petyr, it would be a small price to pay for your lives.”

“But it’s not a price I am willing to pay for you.” Jon told her firmly. “Look at me Sansa –“ he tilted her head towards his. “-we fight tomorrow. WE live tomorrow. That I promise you.”

Sansa closed her eyes nodding but Jon noticed the tears running down her face.

“I have spoken with Grey Worm.” Arya said softly, from beside them and Jon marvelled at how quickly and how silently she moved. “He will stay with you on the morrow.”

Sansa jerked her head towards Arya.

“What no, he should be with you!”

“No. He will stay here. With you.” She patted Sansa’s arm. “If Ramsay is as devious as I think he is, he will send men after you because he will think you are unprotected. Grey Worm offered to stay.” Arya’s lips twisted into a smile. “He knows how much you and Jon mean to me.”

Jon knew of the plan and approved of it whole heartedly. He just wished that Arya would stay behind as well.

Sansa took a deep breath nodding.

“We should get some rest.” Jon told his sisters. “Tomorrow we fight.”

Arya smiled at him, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek causing Jon’s eyes to close. Slowly over the past few weeks, Arya’s ice wall had begun melting, allowing the little sister he had grown up with to peak through the sister that was here now.

She still wasn’t the exuberant wild child he had grown up with, but slowly she was becoming the warm affectionate sister he had known. If only in private.

“We shall see you in the morn brother.” Arya told him, slipping her arm through Sansa’s and together the sisters moved towards the door of the tent. Sansa’s head bowed to whisper to Arya and Arya patting Sansa’s arm as they left.

Sighing Jon rubbed a hand over his face, so very, very tired.

Tomorrow they fight for their home. Tomorrow Ramsay Bolton dies.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so the Battle Begins… Snip-its from a couple of POV during the battle.

He could feel the energy of the men around him humming through the air. Could literally feel the anticipation of battle coursing through each man’s veins. Most would die here today, mayhaps he would die today, but Ser Davos Seaworth was ready to step into eternity knowing he did everything he could to help the true King of the North win back his home.

Turning his loyalties from Stannis Baratheon to Jon Snow had not been an easy decision. But it was a decision that he did not regret.

Especially not now, not after he heard that Stannis had willingly sacrificed his daughter Shireen to that red woman’s god, hoping to turn the tide of the upcoming war.

Davos felt an ache in his heart at the thought of Shireen dying the way she did. Burnt by fire. While her parents stood by and watched. While her parents stood by and did nothing.  
She had been the one bright spark in Davos life. The one person who was guaranteed to welcome him with a warm smile and a loving hug.

And Davos had loved her like a daughter. Like how Stannis should have loved his daughter.

And hearing that Lady Arya had killed the red-woman left Davos with a sense of satisfaction. He hoped she suffered, like how little Shireen had suffered. He hoped she had died staring into those cold grey eyes of Lady Arya’s knowing that she couldn’t seduce or talk her way out of it. He hoped that when and if she woke up on the other side, it was to find that her god no longer wanted her and no longer needed her.

Of course Jon Snow had not been happy about the red woman’s death. Not because of any affection for the red woman but mainly because it was Lady Arya that had killed her.

He still needed to come to the realisation that the sister that came back to him was not the sister he left behind all those years before.

Davos blinked, coming out of his ponderings as he heard the Lord Commander draw his horse up alongside his.

Glancing around him Davos viewed many men, both on horses and on the ground ready to face their death. And for as many people as was gathered, there was an eerie silence that surrounded them; only the call of the crows that flew above their heads could be heard.

It was strange to see so many crows congregated around them but Davos pushed that out of his mind, instead he bought his attention back to the battle.

Dressed head to toe in black with his sword strapped to his side, the Lord Commander made for an intimidating force. He sat astride the Dothraki beast that was Lady Arya’s as it was well-versed in battle and it was not easily spooked.

The beast pawed the ground beneath its hooves ready to fight while it’s rider sat almost placidly on top, his face giving away none of his emotions.

Together they watched Bolton’s forces as it grew in numbers and stretched out for what seemed like leagues.

And the hounds that Bolton had boasted about were not there; instead it was only the men and the horses. But still - Ramsay’s horses outnumbered their men.

This was not going to be an easy fight.

Watching closely Davos saw as the front-line to their forces parted slightly, and Bolton rode confidently to the front, in his hands he carried a rope as he dragged something – or in this case someone – behind him.  
And even from this distance Davos could see the smug look on the man’s pale face.

“Who the fuck is that he’s got Snow?” Tormund who had taken up the Lord Commander’s other side barked. Beside him was the giant they called Wun Wun. Ready for battle. Ready to fight.

“Rickon.” The Lord Commander whispered.

The youngest Stark sibling.

Davos watched as Bolton dismounted, roughly pulling at the rope so that the boy stumbled to a stop beside him, pain and rage so clearly on his young face.

He was a tall boy pale with a shock of deep red hair so much like his sister Lady Sansa but his was wild and curly.

He stood taller than Ramsay by half a head, broad shoulders that were thin but hinted of strength.

They all watched as Ramsay drew a dagger from the sheath at his side, that smug grin widening as he pulled Rickon to him and quickly cut the rope that bound his hands. They all watched as he whispered something in Rickon’s ear, his eyes never leaving the Lord Commander and he pushed Rickon away from him.

It seemed as if Ramsay wanted Rickon to run.

They all watched as Rickon started running full tilt towards them, barely sparing the mad-man behind him a second glance.

Panicked Jon nudged his horse forward, desperate to get to his brother.

“Snow, wait!” Tormund shouted as they watched Jon speed towards his brother, crouched low over the saddle one arm out as if he could scoop the boy out of harm’s way.

“Hold!” he shouted to the troops as they glanced at each other not know what to do. They NEEDED Ramsay to come to them.

Davos watched as Ramsay held out his hand for the bow and arrow that his squire gave him. Watched as he notched the arrow, waited by a few seconds and released as it sailed towards the running Rickon, missing him by just a few steps.

“Shit.” Tormund swore, gripping his sword tightly. 

Silently Davos agreed. This would not end well.

Again he watched as Ramsay notched another arrow, that smug smile widening again as he tracked Rickon’s trail like a dog, drew back and released. This one missing the boy by mere inches.

The Lord Commander was gaining on his brother fast, but Davos feared that it would not be fast enough.

Ramsay threw his head back and laughed the echoes of his laughter reaching them and that’s when Davos knew that he was just playing with them. Deliberately missing the boy for his entertainment.

But this last time, this last time when he notched the arrow, drew back and released, this one Davos knew would hit tried and true.

He tensed on his horse watching as the arrow arched gracefully before it descended, heading straight for the boy’s head.

Davos resisted the urge to turn away instead drew his sword, watching as it descended, down, down, down… before a crow swooped in plucking the arrow from the air, stopping its descent and causing everyone bar the two moving Starks to freeze.

“No!” Davos heard Ramsay scream after a pregnant pause before he shoved the squire away from him, snatching the quiver out of his hands and began raining arrows down on the running boy.

Only to have each and every arrow plucked out of the air by the flying crows. They squawked loudly, and if Davos was a betting man he would almost say that they were laughing at Ramsay.

Davos allowed a grin to touch his face as the Lord Commander finally reached his brother, scooped the boy up, deposited him safely on the horse behind him and in one graceful movement, rounded the horse so that they were racing back towards them.

Ramsay’s roar of rage could be heard even by them.

Suddenly a horn sounded from behind them and on the hill that housed their own archers, was Lady Arya. Seated on a beast drawn straight from the pits of one’s nightmares. Taller and broader than any beast he would ever see. Taller than even some of the men’s horses.

But it was what was beside her that drew his breath. Wolves. Hundreds maybe even a thousand of them. Spanning for what had to be miles. All of different sizes, all of different colours. All snarling and humming with the same energy that echoed through the men. And intermingled with those wolves, were the hounds that Bolton had boasted about. Some standing at even height with the wolves, some smaller but all waiting obediently for their mistress’s command.

Suddenly it looked like the odds just got evened.

Seconds later the Lord Commander reached them, vaulting to the ground and looking up at his younger brother.

“Rickon go to Arya.”

“Jon I can fight.” The boy told him, his voice deeper than Davos anticipated as he steadied the horse.

“Aye you can. But not today.” The Lord Commander told him. “I need you to go to Arya. Please.”

Rickon hesitated but nodded, turning he weaved his way through the throng of men, making his way to his sister who vaulted from the back of her beast onto the horse and into her brother’s arms.

A small smile touched the Lord Commander’s lips as he turned back towards the enemy, watching as Ramsay screamed at his men around him.

Suddenly the word “charge” could be heard and Ramsay’s men rode towards them, the screams of war renting the air.

“Hold!” the Lord Commander shouted out, holding up his sword hand.

Closer they got and Davos could feel how antsy the men were getting.

“Hold!” he continued to hold his hands up and as they got closer Davos saw their first line of horses stumble; the Lord Commander gave a triumphant yell. “Now, men!” he shouted as the deafening roar of the wildlings echoed around them as every man they had available ran on foot towards the fray, brandishing swords, knives and spears. The Lord Commander in the mix of it.

Men and horses clashed head on, the screams and yells drowning out everything else. Davos watch as men from the Thenn tribe tore through their enemy like they were nothing, pulling men from their horses and literally tearing them apart.

Archers from their side notched their bows and released a flurry of arrows into the battle, killing both enemy and ally alike, not really caring who they hit. Davos held their archers back not willing to risk their men’s lives.

“Go, go, go!” he ordered at their few horsemen resisting the urge to spurn his horse into the fight, remembering Lady Sansa’s warning about Bolton.

“We need someone to have eyes on him at all times. To anticipate what he does. Besides Jon and Arya – you Ser Davos are the best person to do that.” he remembered her slightly cynical smile as she spoke to him softly. “He will run if he feels that the tide is turning. We need to make sure he doesn’t run far.”

So Ser Davos waited. Ramsay Bolton would not win today, he thought firmly. Not if he could help it. 

:::

Today was not going to be his day to die. At least not if Tormund could help it.

Grunting Tormund dodged a young boy, younger than he could ever remember being, spinning sharply Tormund hacked into his flanks, ignoring the agonised scream before swinging his sword and killing him instantly.  
Moving quickly Tormund picked up a discarded shield, crouching as he held it above his head, hearing the thunk, thunk, thunk of the arrows as it hit the front of the shield wishing he could wrap his fingers around that little fucker Bolton’s neck and snap it like a twig.

Lady Sansa had been right. Bolton did not care who he killed. Their side, his side, as long as more of their men were being killed; Ramsay’s men were just collateral damage.

“Spineless little fucker!” Tormund snarled, raising his head to view the man on the hill, who was screaming at his archers like a mad man.

He had come to the battle all smug and secure in the knowledge that they had more men. More horses and definitely more weapons.

But before the battle had even begun, the Crow had wiped all that smugness from the little fuckers face and now Ramsay Bolton looked scared.

“Tormund!” distantly he heard Edd’s voice and Tormund turned seeing the glint of a sword coming towards him and even before he could do anything, Tormund heard a vicious growl, saw a blur of black as the man who sought to kill him was attacked by one of the she-wolf’s little wolves.

Stumbling slight Tormund turned to see the little she-wolf’s wolves descend on the enemy like a plague. A black plague that honed in on anyone wearing Bolton colours, tearing their flesh from their bones and feasting on the bodies.

Lady Sansa was right again. Bolton’s ego gotten the better of him, and he dressed everyone – from those of House Umber, to those of House Frey – in his colours. With his house sigil stamped on the front of each and every man.

Know your enemy and know them good, his father use to tell him. And who would know Bolton better than his ex-betrothed?

“We need to do something about those fucken archers!” Styr snarled, coming up beside him and snatching a man in Bolton colours by the neck and snapping it viciously.

Tormund agreed. Those fucking archers were picking off their men left right and centre.

“What would you suggest?” Tormund snapped back, quickly unsheathing his dagger and throwing it at the Thenn Magnar. It sailed right past the Thenn’s ear and into the eye of the man sneaking up on him.  
Cursing Styr rounded, swinging his arm he took the man’s head off in one swing, both men ignoring as his head rolled past them.

“We -!” he began, but Tormund stopped him. Grabbing him he spun the Thenn Magnar around pointing at the hill.

Bolton was gone. But the scene before them had both wildling commander and Thenn Magnar grinning like fools.

The hounds. The hounds that Bolton had been so fucking proud of were attacking the archers savagely, tearing through them a part like piss through snow. Hundreds of them lunging for the archers, too quickly for the men to try and begin to defend themselves.

Tormund threw his head back and started laughing, clapping Styr on the shoulder, before pushing him out of the way and stabbing another Bolton fucker in the neck.

“Our little she-wolf!” Tormund crowed, dodging another Bolton fucker, and Styr stabbing him through the heart.

“Fuck.” Styr cursed, but grinning wildly as he fought off another boy before ripping his throat out with those claw like nails of his. “If I wasn’t so scared of that little she-wolf I would kidnap her, fuck her and force her to have my whelps” he grinned, show-casing filed down teeth and looking like a demon people thought him to be.

Tormund chuckled, catching a Bolton man in mid run and tossing him onto an already fallen man’s spear. The man jerked for but a few seconds before he slumped. Dead.

“Good luck to any fucker brave enough to take on that little she-wolf.” Tormund laughed, his laughter dying at the sight of that massive fucker Umber, storming his way through battle and towards him, eyes full of deadly intent.

“Oh and the gods are smiling down on me.” Tormund chuckled, barely noticing as Styr slipped away, snapping necks and separating heads as he went.

Most did not know that he had history with the Umber commander. They had met before. They had fought before. 

And Umber had taken from him his family. Slit their throats from ear to ear, ending his daughter’s life before it had even begun.

Smiling Tormund welcomed the man with a mocking bow.

One of them was definitely going to die today.

And it was not going to be him.

:::

She appeared by his side from out of nowhere. Seemingly out of thin air. Ghost and Nymeria by her side as they killed and attacked anyone that tried to sneak up on them while they fought their own battle.  
And Jon had to admit. Arya was a skilled swordsman. 

She was quick and light on her feet. Wielding not one but TWO swords, both hands as efficient and as deadly as the other. Confusing her prey before she ran them through and then slashed them open. Her swords gleaming blue in the sun’s light.

The sword she held in her left hand Jon recognised as Valyrian steel by its sharp edges and its distinctive patterns. It looked made for her, light weight, and the right length. And on the handle Jon spied a dragon’s head.  
Another gift, it seemed from the dragon-queen.

“Jon, Bolton.” Arya called out, crossing both swords in front of her body and swinging out so she decapitated the enemies head from his shoulders.

Jon cursed, dancing out of the reach of someone’s sword before he swung high killing the man instantly.

“Son of a bitch he’s gone!”

Shaking her head she stared at Nymeria who threw her head back and let out a howl. Ghost pounced on a man sneaking up behind Jon, ripping his face from his body.

Moments later, Arya’s Dothraki stallion thundered towards them and came to an abrupt stop, snorting and tossing his head.

“Go Jon, I’ll follow.” Arya snapped, dodging as someone threw a knife at her head, she literally plucked it out of the air and tossed it back, hitting the thrower in the neck before she pounced on him, slitting his throat from ear to ear.

“Wun, Wun!” Arya shouted to the giant that held a massive tree trunk and was swinging it around, battering Bolton men so they went flying through the air. He turned at the sound of her voice as Jon mounted Arya’s horse turning it towards Winterfell.

“Go with Jon!” she told the giant as Jon kicked the horse into action, the giant nodded before lumbering after him, causing the ground to shake where he trod.

The battle continued to rage around them and the sounds of slaughter echoing through the air. Jon raced towards Winterfell, past the dying men, the feasting wolves and the ravenous dogs.

What felt like an age later but was in fact only moments, Jon pulled up in front of Winterfell’s closed gates, spying the half a dozen men on the top of the walls, all with their bows trained on him.

Wun Wun stumbled to a stop beside him, the ground continuing to shake even though the giant was no longer moving.

“Huh?” the giant grunted, peering down at him from his massive height. Wun Wun grunted again and lumbered forward, ramming Winterfell’s doors with a massive shoulder.

The wall shook at his power, the men on the wall stumbling. Some released their arrows, striking Wun Wun in the back, his shoulders and his arms.

Wun Wun roared whether in pain or irritation Jon did not know but he rammed the gates again, causing one man to fall off the wall before he raised a massive foot and crushed him in half.

Suddenly the crows that had helped before swooped down, cawing as they went straight for the eyes of the archers on the wall. The men screamed trying to protect themselves, but more crows came, more crows attacked.

Arya pulled up beside him on Nymeria, a handful of men with her and Ghost at hers and Nymeria’s side. Jon watched as her eyes flashed white, and she fell into a trance. The smile widened as she dipped her head.

“Thank you brother.” She whispered. “We shall see you soon.”

And with a blink she was back. Grey eyes instead of white. 

“It’s time Jon.” She told him softly as Wun Wun rammed the gates once more. Jon saw the cracking of the door and knew that they next hit would break those gates down. “It’s time to take back our home.”

Jon agreed. This would end now. This would end today. Winterfell was theirs.

:::

He was surrounded by imbeciles. By moronic, stupid fucks who did not know how to protect their Lord and did not know how to fucking fight!

Brimming with rage he ignored the men that rode through the gates with him, dismounting quickly.

“I want more men posted up on the wall.” He snapped at the man who was his commander but could not remember his name. Really he never took names. Especially of those he commanded. They should be thankful that he did not kill them at first sight. “And I want someone with me at all times.”

“My Lord, there are no more men.” The man told him curtly. “You had them all join the fight.”

Ramsay paused, feeling his rage reach boiling point. Spinning sharply he grabbed the man by the helmet and dragged him closer.

“Then find more men.” He said through clenched teeth. “I don’t know from where but find them!” he roared, shoving the man away from him.

Suddenly the screams of the men on the wall caught his attention and Ramsay lifted his head to see the fucking black nightmares that stole that Stark brat’s life from him – attack his men! What the fuck was it with the animals around here?

His hounds, his damn so-called-loyal hounds, turned on him! He woke to ready them for the battle and found them gone. All 120 of them. Disa–fucking–peared only to resurface again standing at the side of the Stark bitch that he found himself fascinated with.

There was just something about her…

But his hounds, his fucking hounds no longer listened to his command. He tried calling them off as they attacked his archers, tried giving the whistled command. But it was as if they were deaf, their savagery and hunger for human flesh he had cultivated, but their blind obedience to him was gone.

And he blamed that Stark bitch. When he got his hands on her…

“Shoot them down.” Ramsay ordered the handful of men standing around him.

The men turned to him confused causing Ramsay to clench his fists in rage.

Was NO ONE LISTENING TO HIM NOW????

“Shoot the fucking birds down!” he roared, snatching his bow and arrow up and shooting at one of the flying nightmares only to have it dip out of the way and his arrow hit one of his own men.

Just then the gates splintered to pieces and a giant, an actual giant stumbled through the fallen gates.

“Shoot him!” Ramsay ordered but his men were already dodging enemy arrows. Quicker than a snake he grabbed his so called commander pulling him in front of him like a shield, feeling the man’s body jerked as he was hit by two maybe three arrows.

Glancing around him he saw his men – his so called battle-experienced men – falling to the bastard’s army as they swarmed in through the gates.

Disgusted he shoved the dying man away from him, watching as the Jon Snow came storming through the gates on Winterfell as if he owned it.

But he didn’t. Ramsay owned Winterfell. And the bastard and his wildling men will die knowing that fact and that Ramsay would fuck and kill both the bastard’s sisters.

The bastard came towards him, his pretty face not so pretty anymore, covered with dirt and blood. He held up his hand, his men OBEYING his silent command instantly as they lowered their bows. Ramsay shook his head.

For a bastard to command such loyalty blew his mind. He was the declared son of a Lord. The bastard’s father did not even care to acknowledge him. Yet these men followed him blindly.

“Surrender.” The bastard dare command him, glaring at him through the muck and the gore on his face.

Ramsay had never been a person who obeyed instantly. Never been the type of man to give in easily. Especially not to a lesser being.

“How about this.” He cajoled the bastard, holding his hands out in front of him innocently. “I have reconsidered. You suggested one on one combat didn’t you. I think that sounds like a wonderful idea.” He grinned, watching the bastard’s face closely.

Without warning Ramsay notched his bow, gritting his teeth in frustration as the bastard in one smooth movement picked up a fallen Bolton shield and deflected the flying arrow, stomping towards him.  
Ramsay notched again letting another arrow fly only to have the bastard raise the shield, the arrow sinking into the wood and leather with a loud thunk.

By the third arrow the bastard was on him, slamming the shield into the side of his face.

Ramsay grunted as he fell backwards, and the bastard followed, landing on his chest as he rained blows down on him. He felt his nose break beneath the bastard’s fists, saw his blood spurt across the bastard’s face. 

Pain exploded all over his face and he continued to punch him, hate and rage filling the bastard’s eyes before Ramsay’s own eyes went hazy with pain.

He didn’t know how long the beating lasted. Maybe minutes, maybe hours but by the sixth hit, Ramsay felt nothing.

“Jon.” He heard the angel’s voice from out of nowhere and suddenly the blows stopped. Ramsay blinked again, his sight clearing a little as he viewed the bastard glared down at him, chest heaving, face still filled with murderous rage.

Ramsay coughed, feeling blood spill from his lips as he started laughing. Ignoring the pain that consumed him, Ramsay continued to laugh in the bastard’s face.

“A man’s death does not belong to you, Jon.” The angel said softly, and Ramsay’s head flopped to the side, watching as the angel stared at them, two massive beasts standing on either side of her. Was she the angel of death? “A man’s death does not belong to a girl. Instead a man called Ramsay Snow’s death belongs to a girl’s sister.” The angel smiled at him and for the first time in his life, Ramsay felt his first lick of fear. The angel’s face kept interchanging. Myranda, his father, his mother, Myranda, his father, his mother… “A man’s death belongs to Sansa Stark.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa gets her revenge…  
> (So major warnings about this chapter. Dark themes. Torture. Dark Sansa, definitely dark Arya and mentions of rape. So skip if this ain’t for you. Also reminder: my characters are OOC.)

From the shadows she watched him. Studied him. STALKED him.

Her tormentor. Her abuser. A man in a long line of many who had made her life hell. Who forced her to be the victim. Who stole from her, hurt her and ripped her innocence from her as if they had a right to.

A man whose life she now held in the palm of her hand.

He had been - to her - a monster come to life. A man who had instilled such a fear in her that there were times where she felt as if she could’ve just ended it all just to escape his violence.

Her own personal nightmare that seemed to be taller than the hound. More vicious than Joffrey. Crazier than Cersei. And more cunning than Petyr Baelish.

But now, now Sansa saw him for what he truly was. A small pathetic excuse for a human being whose only power lay in the mind games he played with people and his father’s name and fortune. Ramsay Bolton – no Snow, he was Ramsay SNOW, Sansa thought determinedly, Ramsay Snow was a nothing. Just a vindictive little man who will get exactly what he deserved.

Sansa smiled at the thought watching him from the shadows.

He sat bound to a chair in the very dungeons he had just weeks before thrown her into. To train her, he said, like how he trained his hounds. All women needed to be trained.

She had spent fourteen days and fourteen nights in this very cell, with no food, barely any water and just a bucket for her needs.

Each night he came to her with his mocking smiles and his taunting laughter. Each night was a different kind of torture. Was this the night of him forcing himself on her, or would this be the night he just sat and stared at her? Was this the night he would eat his nightly meal in front of her, the fragrant aroma causing her belly to clench with hunger, or would this be the night he would bring his hounds and have his hounds snap and snarl at her while she cowered in the corner.

Each night may have been different, but the effect was the same. Her fear was his aphrodisiac.

But now, now this was Sansa’s time. And she was going to enjoy every minute of it.

The old Sansa would’ve balked at the idea of gaining so much pleasure from someone else’s pain. But the old Sansa had died a long time ago, with her girlish ideals and her childish dreams.

This Sansa knew that the world was a very dark place to live in where men ruled and women were ruled. This Sansa knew that to survive, your enemies had to die, your family had to be kept close and you had to learn how to kill or be killed.

And Sansa wanted Ramsay to suffer as he had made her suffer. She wanted him in pain, both mentally AND physically. And then when he begged and pleaded for his life, she wanted to be the one to take it.

Arya however had initially been reluctant to give her this kill.

_**“This is not something that you can take lightly, Sansa, the taking of someone else’s life. No matter how much they deserved it. Your first kill will always stay with you, in your dreams, in your waking hours. It may diminish over time but it won’t fully disappear.” She had told Sansa softly the night before.** _

_**“I want him dead, Arya. And I want him to suffer.” Sansa told her.** _

_**“I know. And that will happen. But –“Arya sighed, meeting her gaze.** _

_**It amazed Sansa the different faucets of her sister’s personality. In private she was Arya her little sister. Different to the sister she had grown up with but still her little sister, with her warm smiles and her quick wit.** _

_**With her companion Grey Worm there was an easy comradery there that Sansa knew Jon was slightly jealous of. Where once it had been Jon who Arya turned to for advice or companionship she now turned to Grey Worm, speaking easily in the man’s native tongue like she had be born to it.** _

_**In public she was almost as silent as her companion. Watching, assessing, and speaking only when necessary. But when she spoke people tended to listened. The men tended to listen. That in itself was amazing considering when it came to the ways of war, men only listened to themselves.** _

_**And then there was the Arya when faced with the enemy. This Arya alarmed her slightly and she knew concerned Jon. This Arya was not their Arya. It was like a totally different person occupied her sister’s body. She spoke differently, referring to herself and to others in the third person. And although it was subtle, Arya acted differently. Her movements tended to be more – liquid. More precise. More deadly.** _

_**It was her assassin training, Grey Worm had told her when she questioned him one time. Arya had studied for years in the House of Black and White to be one of the most feared assassins in all of the Free Cities and Westeros. With the ability to change her face at will and the knowledge of how to kill a man a thousand different ways, Arya could easily be one of the most dangerous people alive.** _

_**And that was the many faces or the many faucets of Arya’s personality.** _

_**But the Arya that was speaking to her now, was Arya her little sister.** _

_**“I have no doubt that you have earned this kill. That you have earned the life of Ramsay Snow, but to kill a man, Sansa. To take his life –“ she paused, shaking her head. “ – it’s the living with it after that’s the hardest part. No matter how much he deserves it, no matter how much you want it now, it’s the living with it afterwards that will haunt you.” Arya continued softly, drawing Sansa’s attention by the darkness of her eyes. Arya reached out and grabbed Sansa’s hands, turning them over in hers and Sansa noticed the vast difference between the two. Hers were soft, unlined with nary a mark. Arya’s were smaller but callused, her hands riddled with old wound lines and scars. “He has given you enough memories to last you into the next life. Why let him add one more to this.”** _

_**“Because I want my vengeance.” Sansa told her after a pause her mind continually going back to the pain and humiliation she had faced in Ramsay’s hands. “Is that too much to ask?” she had asked her softly.** _

_**Arya shook her head, giving her a strained smile.** _

_**“No, I understand vengeance.” She told her softly. “I just –“she stopped, before taking a deep breath. “I just don’t want you to turn out like me. So consumed with killing and retribution that you end up losing a part of yourself. A part that makes you human.” Arya stared at her with dark eyes full of shadows and secrets. “Just remember that before you make your final decision.”** _

In the end Sansa had asked for his life to be hers. To do what she wanted, to die how she wanted.

But the torture. That would be Arya’s.

“A girl wonders, does a man like his room a girl has prepared for him.” Sansa watched as Ramsay jerked his head turning towards the shadows that housed Arya, anger chasing away the fear.

“Untie me, bitch. NOW!” Ramsay roared and Sansa shook her head. The man was seriously delusional if he thought he still held the upper hand.

“But a girl does not want to.” Her sister said mockingly, her tone sweet as she stepped into the dim light of the dungeon cell. Again Sansa was taken back by the sheer beauty of her sister. Those grey eyes glinting in the dim light, the display of high cheekbones, full lips and light tone of her skin.

The thick wealth of long dark hair was tied back into an intricate braid, and even though she was standing demurely Sansa had begun to notice the danger that wrapped around her sister like a well favoured cloak. Clinging to her and drawing attention to the slim lines of her body, the curve of her smile and the dark depths of her eyes.

“Once I get free I will –“

“Why does a man think he will leave this place?” Arya asked him curiously, tilting her head to one side. “A man won’t leave this place. A man will die, maybe not tonight. Maybe not even on the marrow. But a man will die.”

Ramsay started laughing, his body jerking, those eyes that haunted her nightmares widening crazily.

“I will fuck you girl.” He promised in a low tone. “While your sister and that bastard watches. They will hear you scream for mercy to which I will have none. They will –“

“A man bores a girl with his inane chatter.” Arya interrupted sighing. “A girl likes action.” Sansa watched as Arya continued to smile at Ramsay demurely, as if they were discussing the weather. “Oh! I girl would like to introduce you to a friend.” From behind her Arya pulled out a small but dangerous looking dagger that fit her smaller hand perfectly. The handle was shaped like a dragon, complete with scales, twisting tail and glowing red eyes. The blade was twice as long as the handle, curved and seemed as if it was coming directly from the dragon’s mouth. Almost like a dragon’s fire. She tilted it, staring down at it as it caught the dim light, the steel of the blade glinting. “A girl calls her friend Athdrivar or Death.” She smiled at the blade affectionately, before turning that smile on Ramsay. “Athdrivar has been wanting to meet a man called Ramsay Snow for a long time.”

“You think a blade scares me?” Ramsay laughed, but Sansa heard the slight shake in his voice and saw the apprehension in his eyes.

“A girl’s Dothraki brother gifted her Athdrivar as well as many other gifts. A girl wishes Ramsay Snow to meet them.” She raised her hand and in swaggered Styr, the Thenn leader, carrying a large bag. Sansa watched as he paused, turning to stare at Ramsay before grinning as he leaned forward to sniff at Ramsay’s neck. Ramsay blanched in revulsion, flinching away from the Thenn leader, but not being able to get very far.

“His flesh will taste sweet.” Styr purred, licking the blood from Ramsay’s cheek before smacking his lips. “So very sweet.” he whispered as if in a trance, his tongue peeking out to lick his lips.

“A girl will allow the Thenn Magnar Ramsay Snow’s flesh after a girl is finished.” Arya promised causing Styr to snort before he placed the bag he carried at her feet.

“A girl better remember.” Styr warned teasingly, pointing a finger in Arya’s face. Arya inclined her head almost regally, reminding Sansa of their mother.

“A girl keeps her promises.”

“Aye, a girl does.” Styr smiled, again showing those teeth. “A Thenn Magnar eagerly awaits.” He bowed slightly, smirking at Ramsay who blanched in fear, before Styr sauntered out of the cell, winking at Sansa on his way out.

“Now –“Arya said calmly, drawing Ramsay’s attention back to her. “A girl’s other friends.” She drew out a Dothraki arakh, with its onyx hilt and it’s ebony blade. “A girl named this friend after her Dothraki brother Drogo.” A warm smile crossed Arya’s features as looked at Ramsay. “A girl wishes that Ramsay Snow could meet Drogo. Drogo would love to meet a man called Ramsay Snow.” She sighed, her smile widening. “A girl has many memories to tell her Dothraki brother when he gets here. Many memories indeed! Oh! And this –“ she pulled out another blade, this one with its jagged edges and it ivory handle. “ – this friend a man would appreciate. This one is used by the Lothrati for skinning the skin off a man’s flesh.” Arya stared at the blade almost lovingly. “A girl’s mentor gifted her with this friend.” She said softly. “They speak to me. Each wanting to taste a man’s flesh first, each whispering to a girl about their thirst to taste a man’s blood.” She tilted her head and Sansa’s smile widened as Arya traced the tip of the Lothrati blade from the top of Ramsay’s forehead, around to the front side of his ear, down past his jawline and then stopped in the clef of his chin. A thin line of newly spilt blood following in its wake.

Ramsay choked, jerking his head back and he began to struggle in earnest, a terrified look crossing his pale face. Sansa’s smiled widened at the fear on her tormentor’s face.

It was if he finally understood that Arya was not some simple little girl playing at being a killer. It was if the darkness that was in Ramsay recognized the darkness that was in Arya and it knew which was the more dangerous one. It was as if Ramsay finally believed that he wasn’t as untouchable or as feared as he had thought he was.

“A man must watch.” Arya whispered, as with her free hand she touched the top of her forehead, past her hand down her face, her features changing as her hand lowered. Suddenly Myranda’s face stared at Ramsay, causing him to give a small strangled sound.

Grabbing the front of his tunic, Arya/Myranda drew the blade down, slicing open his tunic in one smooth movement, the tip of the blade leaving a trail of red from the base of his throat down to his belly.

Ramsay cried out, abruptly cutting off his scream as he stared at Arya/Myranda.

“I would never bore you Ramsay?” Arya/Myranda cooed in Myranda’s baby-like voice, touching the unhurt side of his face tenderly. “I love you.” She pouted, before smiling at him. “Tell me Ramsay do you think Lady Sansa is pretty?”

Ramsay blanched as stared at her in fear.

“Well do you?” she demanded, glaring at him in anger. “What did you tell me when I told you that I might go and find myself my own husband? That I am yours?” she screamed in his face, causing Ramsay to rear back. “You are mine Ramsay! Mine! I refuse to share you with her!” she screamed in his face. Arya/Myranda stopped her tantrum abruptly giving him a warm smile. “I loved you Ramsay.” She murmured leaning in towards him and brushing her lips over his.

“Myranda.” He whimpered, and Sansa saw tears, actual tears form in his eyes.

“But you chose her! Sansa Stark of Winterfell!” she spat. “You chose someone else instead of me!” she hissed her eyes narrowing in hatred.

Sansa was fascinated. Absolutely fascinated. Her sister was playing with Ramsay’s mind, his emotions. It was mesmerizing.

Arya/Myranda stopped, smiling that beguiling smile once more before her hand past from forehead to chin, this time revealing Ramsay’s father. Roose Bolton.

“Your brothers Ramsay?” Arya drawled in the perfect pitch of Roose Bolton’s tone. “You killed your brothers?! They were babies!”

“Father I –“

“Enough!” Arya/Roose snapped, back handing him and causing Ramsay’s head to snap to one side. “You are a disgrace to the Bolton name! I regret ever having legitimizing you!” Arya/Roose smirked, leaning towards Ramsay. “In fact – I take it back. You are no longer my son. You are no longer a Bolton!”

“Father no! I –“

Again, Arya/Roose’s hand past from forehead to chin.

“Ramsay?” this woman was unfamiliar. Pretty, with her curly blonde hair and her bright blue eyes. “Ramsay.” The woman breathed cupping the unhurt side of Ramsay’s face with tenderness that had Sansa frowning. “My son. My baby.”

“Mot – mother?” Ramsay choked out, the tears falling from his eyes.

“Look how you’ve grown.” The woman whispered. “So strong, my son.”

Ramsay sobbed as he nuzzled his face into her hand.

“But what have you done?” the woman scolded. “You’ve hurt so many people. Killed so many. Why son, why?”

“Mother please!”

“I can’t forgive what you’ve done Ramsay. You’re – you’re evil. A killer.” She gasped her eyes widening. “A monster.” She whispered dropping her hands from his face as if he were filth.

“No, no, no, no!”

“I’m ashamed of you. For what you’ve done. For the people you’ve hurt.” She blinked those big blue eyes at him. “I have no son.” She finished, taking a step away from him.

“Mother!” Ramsay whined watching as she retreated from him shaking her head in disappointment.

“I can’t let a monster like you live.” Arya/Ramsay’s mother whispered. “I can’t let you hurt anymore people. I just can’t.” she finished staring at her hand as if she just realised that she held a knife in them. “You must die. The evil must die!”

She lunged forward thrusting the blade towards Ramsay’s belly with such rage it had Ramsay screaming in fear.

Only to have her pull up short the tip of that deadly blade piercing his exposed belly, drawing a droplet of blood to the surface.

Arya/Ramsay’s mother began laughing, that laughter having a hysterical edge to it.

“Oh a man is so entertaining.” Again the swiping of her hand over her face and her sister’s eyes peered down at a sobbing Ramsay. “A man disappoints a girl, though. A girl thought that a man would last longer than this.” She shrugged. “A man is weak. Feeble. Pathetic.”

Grey Worm had told her to watch for a sign. It would be very subtle, but it would indicate when Arya had quit playing and she would be down to business.

He had told her to watch Arya’s eyes. A slight narrowing of her eyes before a cold smile would touch her lips and she would incline her head ever so slightly to the left.

Arya gave the sign as she held the Lothrati blade up again, staring at the blade and then at Ramsay.

“A man hurt a girl’s sister. He hurt Sansa Stark. Now a man must pay with his life.” She said softly, touching the blade with her free hand. “A girl wants to hear a man scream. Like how he made a girl’s sister scream.” She reached grabbing Ramsay by the hair and jerking his head back to expose his throat. “A girl wants to hear the pain in a man’s voice as he screams ‘stop’.” Arya started lovingly making criss cross motions across his cheek with the blade, the smile on her face rivalling Sansa’s.

Ramsay whimpered causing Arya to stop.

“A girl wants to hear a man scream.” She told him sternly, her grip tightening on the handle of the blade and digging into his cheek a little harder.

Ramsay’s whimpers turned into sobs as he tried to jerk his head away from Arya’s grip.

“A girl said scream!” Arya commanded.

It was then Ramsay gave her what she wanted, as the harder she dug her blade into Ramsay’s cheek, the louder he screamed.

Again Sansa wondered if there was something wrong with her at her lack of emotion. She felt no disgust, no repulsion. Not even shock at the sight of her sister torturing this man.

“A man made a girl’s sister shed tears. Tears of pain, of humiliation. Tears he had no right to.” With her free hand she wrapped her fingers around his throat, as she lifted her hand and back handed him twice. Something he would do to her on a regular basis.

“Stop!” Ramsay sobbed. “Please!”

Arya ignored him, instead she moved to her bag and pulled out a handful of long metal spikes. They were thin, thinner than Sansa’s little finger but longer than the span of her hand.

“A man hasn’t screamed loud enough for a girl to be satisfied. A man must scream louder.” She told him firmly, selected one spike and driving it through Ramsay’s upper chest.

Another spike went through the opposite side of his chest, and another through the top of his thigh, so very near his the one place he held dear.

“No! Please!” Ramsay cried. “Please, please, please.”

“I remember crying the very same words.” Sansa said softly, her voice wrapping around them. “No, please. Don’t. Please.” she took a step towards the pair, holding her head high, studying Ramsay’s face like it were a puzzle. “Please. Stop. Please.” she trailed off, a smile similar to Arya’s crossing her face.

Silently Arya took a step back, allowing Sansa to get closer.

“I remember hearing your laughter, mocking me. Taunting me. And then I remember the feel of your hands as they held me down. As you raped me. I remember that day in the forest when you and Myranda hunted for me like I was some animal. And how you allowed your dogs, your hounds, to track me down, snarling and snapping. I remember a lot of things, Ramsay.” She said so softly as she stalked towards a sobbing Ramsay. “But the screams. My screams is what I remember most of all. Please. Don’t. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.” The more she said it the angrier she got. “Stop. Please stop.” She spat, realizing she was directly in front of him, staring down at him. “But all you did was laugh. At my pain. At me.” Sansa held out her hand and Arya placed in it a one small metal spike.

Ramsay panted staring at her through pain filled eyes.

“You won’t do it, Sansa.” He croaked. “You don’t have the guts to – arhhhh!”

Without warning Sansa stabbed him in the thigh, ignoring him as he tried to bow away from her.

“For the bite mark you gave me the first time you raped me.” she said stonily. “Right on the upper thigh. Remember Ramsay? You took a chunk right out of him thigh.” She sneered.

Again she held out her hand and Arya placed another spike in it. This time she drove the spike into his forearm causing him to scream in pain.

“For the time when you almost broke my forearm when I raised it to defend myself from your lashings.”

Another spike. This time in his stomach.

“For the time you kept me in this cell for 14 days without food and would eat in front of me causing my stomach to clench in hunger.”

And finally the last spike. This one thicker than the others. Shorter but sharper.

Sansa stared at the spike and then at Ramsay whose eyes were hazy with pain.

“This one, this one is special.” She whispered to him. “For every night you came to me. Held me down and raped me. Tore me apart. Wrapped your hands around my throat and squeezed without mercy. Suffocating me until I would black out only to revive me and start again.”

Lifting her hand she drove the spike down with a ferocity that surprised her, in between his legs, right through his penis causing him to scream in agonized pain.

“And now –“ Sansa said softly, staring at him as he sobbed in pain. “Now a man called Ramsay Snow will feel what real pain is like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Okay, okay, okay. I know. There are hints through this chapter that Khal Drogo is alive and well in my story, he is. Yeah I know. Spoiler alert! But it’s Jason Momoa. JASON MOMOA. I – I just can’t! I’m sorry!)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Across the Narrow Sea...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Hello everyone! So I am finally back and I would like to apologise for my long delay. Writers block is a bitch! But my muse is back and hopefully I will update more regularly than I have been. Enjoy!)

Why were men such idiots at times?

They could command an army of a thousand warriors, inspire such loyalty that those same warriors would willing follow them into war, gain instant respect based on their gender alone and yet they could still – at times - act like little children.

Daenerys Targaryen took a deep breath as she stormed her way from her ship's quarters to the stern of one of the many Masters ships she had acquired during the Siege of Meereen.

They had been at sea for close to two moons and thanks to the blessings of the winds were reaching Westeros far faster than either Ser Barristan Salmy or Lord Tyrion Lannister had anticipated.

But being stuck on a ship that one could reach from one end to another in but a few moments had its down falls.

Sick warriors who could not take to the shifting grounds beneath them, whining family members in the form of her nephew Aegon Targaryen who even though was but a few years younger than she, acted as young as her five year old son at times. An irritable husband who needed to kill something or someone soon or he'll go crazy and a grumpy child who was missing his much favoured aunt, had Daenerys wanting to pull out her hair.

Her only saving grace was the sanity of her handmaiden Missandei, whose soothing presence and sound advice stopped Daenerys on a regular basis from ordering Drogon to start setting people on fire! Especially that damn husband of hers!

All she had wanted on this eve was a nice, family meal in their quarters with her husband and her son. But being told by Missandei that her son had refused to come to dinner because he, his oversized father, his cousin AND Daario Naharis, one of her trusted advisors were 'in competition' had Daenerys' resisting the urge to scream in frustration.

"How long have they been at it?" Daenerys asked Missandei who followed quickly behind her.

"The Khal, Daario and Prince Aegon, since this morn, Khalessi. Prince Rhaego for the past hour." Missandei informed her, coming to a halt behind Daenerys as she came to a stop beside her husband, Khal Drogo.

He was such a fiercely commanding man, whose personality at times were at odds with each other. To most he was harsh and brutal, unrelenting and cruel. One of the youngest Khals in history, undefeated as evident of the long braid that reach down below his waist and able to kill an armed man in but a few seconds with just his bare hands.

His name alone made other Khal's cautious and his reputation in combat was less to none.

But to her and to their son – and as of late Arya Stark - he was just husband, father and brother. Protective, at times gentle and loving but never cruel. At least not to them.

Resisting the urge to run her hand over his broad shoulders, Daenerys stared at the three men and the one child, shaking her head.

Her husband sat cross legged a dark scowl on his bearded face as he glared at their son who sat opposite him mimicking his father, both balancing a blade on their outstretched hands.

Daenerys felt her lips twitch at the sight. Her husband so large, so dark so intimidating, with his brown skin, his black hair and large frame. Their son so much like his father in appearance save for his white blonde hair and his purple eyes that denoted him a Targaryen. And even though the scowl on Drogo's face was dark and intimidating, there was no denying the father's pride in her husband's eyes as he stared at their son.

However the other two seemed to be locked in a private battle that neither wanted to end.

"Your grace is stronger than he looks." Daario Naharis drawled, causing a muscle in Aegon's jaw to twitch. "But I can see your arms beginning to shake."

"Concentrate on yourself, sellsword." Aegon sneered, lifting his hands higher.

"Should I even ask?" Dany asked them, one brow raised in question.

"Whoever shall win has the honour of courting our Arya without the other interfering once we get to Westeros." Daario told her easily causing Daenerys to shake her head. It was like they did not know Arya Stark. Because the Arya Stark SHE knew would sooner stab them both repeatedly in the face than let herself be tied down into marriage with either of them.

She knew Aegon considered himself in love with the little wolf that had Tyrion Lannister muttering about history repeating itself and both Ser Barristan and Jorah Mormont watching the two very carefully. But to their relief it seemed that the affection was one sided as Arya tended to treat Aegon like an annoying brother she couldn't get rid of. Daario however was the consummate flirt who would and could charm anyone and anything. The one and only time he had tried with her had ended up with him nursing a knife wound to the throat and a broken arm thanks to the jealous nature of her husband.

But Daario flirting with Arya had Aegon brimming with jealousy, Drogo threatening to maim him and Rhaego asking Jorah Mormont about poisons and toxins. And although Dany did have a sneaking suspicion that there was something more between the two, there was never any real evidence of a relationship.

Dany sighed wishing Arya Stark were here now. She had the amazing ability to handle idiot sellswords, pouting princes and stubborn Khals with naught but a smile and a firm word.

"And you two?" she asked her husband and her son.

" ** _Ave_ ** said I could not last an hour." Her five year old son told her while smirking at his father. "I have lasted an hour." He told her triumphantly.

"And you husband?"

"Discipline is a warrior's friend on the battlefield. I will teach our son discipline." He told her gruffly in his native tongue, never taking his eyes from their son.

Sighing in annoyance, Daenerys turned to Missandei.

"How long till we reach the shores of Westeros?" she asked her.

"Lord Tyrion said it should be the day after next if we remain sailing the way we are."

"Good." spinning on her heels she snapped the skirts of her dress closer to her body, shooting all four males a look of annoyance. "Once we reach the shore be sure to inform Lady Arya of the idiocy of those two –"she nodded her head toward Daario and Aegon. "And how they planned her future without her knowledge on who she is going to marry –"Daenerys' lips twitched as both Daario and Aegon quickly dropped their blades a look of trepidation crossing both their faces.

Small as she was Arya Stark inspired a fear in most of the men in their company. The others held a healthy respect for her.

"And how her **_Gaezo_** wasted his time playing silly games instead of planning for the upcoming war –"she watched as her husband's scowl deepened before he too dropped his blade getting to his feet and stretching that long body of his causing Daenerys' eyes to be drawn to the length of his muscled torso. Resisting the urge to release a girlish sigh she then turned to her son.

"My-Arya loves me." her son told her causing a smile to cross Daenerys' features. To Rhaego, Arya had always been "My-Arya" ever since he laid eyes on her. Her son being so much like his father with his possessive nature.

"Aye she does. You are probably the only one who would remain unscathed once she is told of this foolishness." She told her son fondly, brushing a hand over his blonde head causing her son to grin up at her.

"I miss My-Arya, **_Mai_**." Rhaego told her seriously as he too got to his feet, grimacing slightly as he stamped his left foot to probably try and wake it up. "I do not like that she has been away from me for so long." He finished, placing his hands on his hips and frowning deeply.

"You are not the only one, _**Tih rizh**_ , it seems as if we all are missing her." Dany told him softly, running her hand over his head. This was her heart. Her Rhaego. Whereas Drogo was her sun and stars, her son was her heart, with his quick wit, his easy smiles and his fierce nature.

Five years old and already he spoke in four different languages fluently thanks to Missandei, could charm the masses like Daario, was learning to fight in hand to hand combat like his father and had a clear head for battle like Arya. Five years old her son was, and already conducted himself like a man. And to temper the harshness of life that surrounded him she also made sure that he was encircled by those who loved him unconditionally. Missandei, Daario, his father, Arya and even Aegon.

She was determined that her son's upbringing would not be like hers.

"Do you think she misses us?" Rhaego asked. "That she misses me?" Dany smiled down at her son, cupping his face.

"Aye, I believe she does."

"Especially you, young prince." Daario drawled, grinning down at Rhaego. "If there is anyone that our Arya would miss the most, it would be you." Rhaego beamed at the sellsword, drawing himself up to his full height.

It was funny how the tiny Stark girl had ingrained herself in their big family in such a way that her absence was felt by them all. For Rhaego he probably missed yet another female that catered to his whims and wishes. While Dany tried to instill a certain sense of discipline in Rhaego, Arya and Missandei tended to give her son anything within their power to give. Even if it was behind her back.

But in all honesty, Dany knew her son missed his much loved Aunt fiercely. So much so that he made sure that his other much loved Aunt – Missandei – was never far from him, in case she too disappeared. He had even gone as far as to order her to never be away from him longer than an hour. Her son being as possessive of Missandei as he was of Arya. They were his aunts. His family. Women who were his if not by blood then definitely by heart.

Missandei, she knew missed the only other woman besides Dany who ever treated her like she were someone of value and not just a slave who had her uses. Other than Dany, no high-born had ever treated Missandei with respect or as an equal. But Arya Stark did, ignoring the lines of tradition and etiquette she treated Missandei as if she were family, oftentimes drawing the usually reserved translator out of her shell where she now spoke her mind during discussions and council meetings, refusing to be silenced until her opinion on the matter was heard.

Aegon who had ideals of weddings, marriage and babies, missed the object of his obsession. Dany wasn't too sure if his feelings were true or if he were caught up in his father's past, wanting a woman who would not want him back.

Daario had no other female to flirt with. Flirting with Dany meant the sharp end of Drogo's blade or the hard end of his fist, and flirting with Missandei earned him a dead panned stare that had the charming swordsman shifting uncomfortably. With Arya they would exchange witty repartee that had him grinning like a madman and Arya rolling her eyes at him.

And her Drogo, he missed the one person he considered his sister in every which way but blood. Oftentimes he could be heard muttering to himself in Dothraki that there was none worthy to fight as none had the skill or the head for battle as his **_inavva_**. His sister.

Her skill rivalled his, as did her blood lust. But whereas Drogo lost himself in the kill, Arya tended to remain clear-headed. Which was why as an opponent Drogo loved going up against her. He loved the fact that she was forever thinking on her feet when she fought taking note of her opponent's weaknesses and exploited them. She did not allow her diminutive size stop her from being one of the deadliest opponents her husband had fought against. That respect had not come easily though. Arya Stark gained it the hard way. By protecting Drogo's only weaknesses. Her and his son.

They had just raided the Lhazareen people and Dany had stepped in to stop a Dothraki man called Mago from raping one of their women. The spoils of war, she had been told. Something that they had done for centuries. It did not mean that it was right. The rape of women was something she did not and would not condone. No matter what her husband had said.

As Dany and Drogo stood debating on the wrongs and rights of war, neither had noticed that Mago and a few of his loyalist had surrounded Dany and Rhaego until it was too late.

_"You are a foreigner." Mago interrupted, staring at her through impudent eyes. "You do not command me."_

_Dany stared back at him unflinchingly._

_"I am Khalessi." She told him proudly. "I do command you."_

_Mago's glare turned deadly, his hands fisting by his side. Drogo chuckled._

_"See how fierce she grows?" he mocked Mago. "Unafraid and proud. She birthed my son, he filled her with fire. Go somewhere else to stick your cock in. Your Khalessi has spoken." He laughed._

_Mago drew his Ankh, spitting on the ground in front of Drogo. A blatant display of disrespect._

_"A Khal who take orders from a foreign whore is no khal." He said in disgust._

_Suddenly there was a scuffle and Dany turned just in time to see Arya Stark sneak up behind a member of her Khalasar holding her son captive, his blade touching the tender skin of her son neck and she watched as Arya snap the man's neck like he wasn't a full head taller than her. Dany's heart dropped at the thought of how close she was to losing her son and she watched as Arya swept the boy and deposited him into Missandei's arms in one smooth movement._

_"Kill the half breed!" Mago raged. "And anyone who gets in your way."_

_Dany felt the yank of her arm and spinning she came face to face with Ser Jorah who drew her into the circle of his arms protectively._

_"Rhaego!" she screamed. Struggling when Ser Jorah pulled her away from the fray._

_"Khalessi please. The prince is safe with Lady Arya." Ser Jorah insisted. "We must get you to safety."_

_She heard her husband's roar of rage as he clashed with Mago. Saw those still loyal to Drogo as they fought against those who sought to betray them._

_And saw little Arya Stark as she wounded and killed anyone and everyone that dared to try and take Rhaego from Missandei's arms. For such a small being there was such strength and speed in her. Seasoned Dothraki warriors could not seem to touch her, as she darted around them, making them look like lumbering idiots as she cut and sliced them open. There was precision in her movements as she slashed at legs, thighs and bellies. Ignoring them as they fell, a pile of bodies at her feet._

_And then within minutes the uprising had been squashed. Their enemies lay at their feet, dead while their loyalist surrounded Dany and Rhaego in a protective circle. Drogo paced like a caged animal as he glared down at a fallen Mago whose throat he had just ripped out._

_Dany knew her husband. Knew that he would be feeling betrayed and humiliated that a man he trusted had been able to turn so many of his Khalasar._

_" **Mai**!" Dany turned and opened her arms to her son who ran to her, his constant protector a few paces behind. _

_"Thank you." She whispered to Arya, who gave her a small bow._

_"You!" her husband roared pointing to Arya who turned to face him serenely. Dany rose to her feet to intervene only to have Ser Jorah take her arm._

_"Wait Khalessi." He advised._

_"You fought like a Dothraki to save the life of my son." Drogo told her fiercely, storming towards her and coming to an abrupt halt in front of her._

_"Aye."_

_"Why." A smile crossed Arya Stark's face as she glanced down at Rhaego._

_"Because him I like." She told him truthfully, smiling down at Rhaego who beamed up at her._

_Drogo nodded._

_"And you I like." He told her. "You are now considered family." He told her firmly. "My sister. You saved the life of my son. I give you a gift I have given no other. We are now brother and sister." Dany stared at her husband knowing the enormity of such a statement. Apparently Arya did too._

_"You humble me with such an honour, Khal." She bowed. "I thank you and I accept." Drogo nodded, turning to the crowd of loyalist._

_"Take their bodies. Those that died with honour, we burn them and send them to our ancestors. The others we feed to the animals. Go!"_

And from that day on, Arya Stark was now known as blood sister to Khal Drogo. And good sister to Daenerys Targaryen.  

"Two days, Tih rizh." Dany told her son soothingly. "We will see your Arya in two days."

Dany paused shaking her head as she spied her nephew and Daario get into another one of their silly competitions and her husband stomp his way to the other side of the ship. "And it cannot come soon enough." She heard Missandei mutter, echoing Dany's own thoughts.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (So I used the online Dothraki translator to find the words for Father (Ave), brother (Gaezo), mother (Mai) and My Son (Tih rizh) Hopefully they were right!)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI the Stark Siblings ages are: Jon (19) Arya (16), Sansa (17), Bran 15, Rickon (14) mainly because I confuse myself with everyone’s ages so I made them up!!

He reminded Jon of Robb. With his shock of red Tully hair, his bright blue eyes and his tall stature.

And he was tall for his age, being that he was only ten and four; stood at least shoulder height with him, with wide thin shoulders, large hands and a deep voice that seemed out of place in someone so young.

His youngest brother had grown up and if those hands were any indication still had more growing to do.

But Rickon was home. He was finally home. As was Arya, and Sansa.

They were slowly pulling the remnants of their family back together, more broken in one way or another, all changed from before but at least they – the last of the Starks – were finally coming together, at Winterfell, where they belonged.

They only awaited Bran, who according to Arya travelled with Howland Reed’s daughter and would be with them before the next new moon.

Winterfell was finally back in the hands of the Starks.

_**There must always be a Stark at Winterfell**_ … his father’s words echoed in his ears as he took a deep breath.

It had been but a week since they had regained their home and during that week Jon had seen his siblings for who they were now and not how they had been when he had left them.

Sansa had been the one to eventually take Ramsay’s life.

Jon had been watching from the shadows, his stomach twisting as he watched Arya torture the man to the point of insanity, Jon finally seeing – and accepting, albeit reluctantly - the extent of his sister’s special gifts.

But it had been Sansa’s part in it that had almost broken Jon’s heart. His once regal, gentle and quiet sister stabbing Ramsay in a frenzy, lost in her own pain as she wept for everything she had lost at the hands of a madman.

It had been Arya to call her name softly that had stopped her. Arya who had taken their sister in her arms and half carried her out of the dungeons, past a silent Jon and away from the dead corpse of Sansa’s tormentor.

Both his sisters had gone through so much just to survive.

He had not seen them for a full day after that, but suddenly the morning two days after, both Stark women had shown up for breakfast, taken their seats beside Jon and acted like nothing even happened.

But there was a definite change in Sansa from that day on. As if a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Her head held high, the Stark pride stamped back in her features. She spoke like a true lady of Winterfell, the servants obeying her without question and she set about the changing their home back to the good memories she held and not the bad.

And then there was Arya. Jon did not know if he knew of a more dangerous person in all of the Seven Kingdoms.

On the surface she seem like just another lady of Winterfell, with her astounding beauty, her reserved manner and her soothing words. But over the few moons that she had stormed back into his life, Jon saw the many facets of her personality that Sansa had spoken of, pull together.

Assassin, lady, wildling… sister.

It had been the last one that he had feared he would not see again. He had missed her warmth and her teasing. Missed her temper as well as her hugs.

But with the return of both Sansa and Rickon, that little sister from his childhood peaked her head through every now and then, lightening his heart.

Rickon, Jon found was a quick learner, eating Arya’s training up like he were starving. They two usually could be found together in the training yard, or speaking to the wildlings in the Old Tongue, helping to rebuild their home, brick by brick.

He made friends among the wildlings easily, more easily than Jon did, and in turn they treated him like family.

Looking at him was like looking at Robb at that age. Strong, confident. So Tully looking.

But there was this - wildness in his youngest brother that had never been in Robb. Seven hells, if Jon were honest it had never even been in Arya, and growing up she had more wildness in her than all the Stark kids put together.

But with Rickon now it was like – just there. In his eyes, in his growing body just beneath his skin waiting. For what Jon did not know, but he was sure that he never wanted to find out.

Because directed correctly, its destruction would lay waste to all their enemies. Directed INcorrectly it would bring them and everyone around them to their knees.

Jon sighed as he watched his youngest brother battle with Tormund in the training yard. The bigger man easily overpowering his younger brother by picking both boy and staff up and throwing him a few feet from him, causing him to tumble into the training yard fence with loud thwack that had him staring up at the sky in a daze.

The wildlings around them laughed. Deep belly-like laughs that had Rickon scrambling to his feet, his face red as his hair, fists clenched in anger.

Jon then watched as his dark sister stepped forward drawing their brother’s attention. He listened intently to whatever she said, nodding as his eyes darted from a grinning Tormund back to their sister, before she stepped away.

“Are you telling him my secrets, little wolf?” Tormund bellowed, pointing a finger at Arya who gave him a secretive smile.

“Of course not Lord Wildling. That would be cheating.” She told him softly as she fell back into the crowd, giving the large man a mocking bow.

Tormund threw his head back and laughed, pointing his staff at Rickon.

“Then come at me Wild Wolf. Let us begin this dance of warriors.”

Jon watched as Rickon moved towards Tormund again, swinging and twirling his staff in intricate circles, causing Tormund to watch him closely his eyes never leaving Rickon, his body swaying with the staff.

Suddenly, without warning Rickon launched himself at the larger man, the end of his staff coming up with hit Tormund’s wrapped ribs and the top of the staff jarring the larger man between his shoulder and his neck in quick succession, causing Tormund to lose his grip his staff.

Rickon’s movements were short and sharp causing Jon to believe that he had only been playing with Tormund before as he hit the wildling commander in the ribs, kidney, belly, elbow, neck on his left side before repeating it on the right.

Tormund grunted, falling to his knees, his head lowered and Jon watched as Rickon – who looked as if he were lost in his own blood lust – bought the end of his staff down towards Tormund’s head, only to pull himself up short, inches away from his intended target.

The wildlings roared with laughter, all cheering his younger brother’s victory over Tormund, who threw his head back and laughed himself, despite his pain.

“You learn fast, Wild Wolf!” Tormund chuckled, accepting Rickon’s offered hand to get to his feet and clapping him on his back. Rickon stumbled forward from the strength of Tormund’s affection, grinning up at the wildling commander. “Come!” he clapped his hands, grinning like a fool. “We dance again.”

Jon shook his head as the two red-heads went at it again, the clash of wood echoing above the sounds of the men’s cheers.

“Jon.” Blinking Jon turned to stare as Sansa drifted towards him, a large wolf close to her side. Not as big as either Ghost or Nymeria, this new wolf, Asander, was from Nymeria’s closely knitted pack. Larger than the average wolf, though still smaller than a direwolf, Arya had presented him to Sansa a week before for her protection, knowing her sister’s uneasiness around males that weren’t her brothers or Grey Worm.

And the wolf hardly left his mistress’s side, his warning growl echoing menacingly at any male – not deemed pack - that dared to get too close, trailing after her wherever she went. Besides Sansa, the wolf obeyed only Arya. And Jon would not have it any other way.

“Arya tells me the Dragon Queen arrives in Dragonstone Island by the new moon.” Sansa mentions softly, coming up to stand beside him.

“Aye,” he replied, turning to view the fighting once again. “Grey Worm left last night to meet them in time.”

“Our sister tells me that the majority of the queen’s army will stay on Dragonstone Island. The Queen, a few members of her council and her family will be accompanying her to Winterfell.” She paused, reaching out to sink her fingers into Asander’s fur as he leaned against his mistress in silent comfort. “I have set up mother and father’s rooms for her and her Khal as it would be the warmest room for them both. The room opposite them is for the prince. The others will be housed in the new guest rooms within the castle.” Sansa told him, her eyes watching their younger brother closely.

Jon watched her closely, noticing the tension in her face, and the coldness in her eyes. The last few days there had been a lightness in his auburn-haired sister that had made him smile, but today that lightness was not there.

“What is it?” he asked her softly, worried for her.

“I just received a raven from Petyr Baelish.” She told him, her tone as cold as her face. Reaching within her robes she pulled out a parchment offering it to him.

Staring at her Jon silently took the parchment, trying to read her face. Beside him he felt Arya, idly wondering how she got from one end of the yard to his side in a manner of seconds.

“What is it?” she asked softly, echoing Jon’s words from a moment before. Sansa’s eyes met Arya’s and something passed between the two sisters as Jon offered her the letter from Little-Finger.

_**“My dearest Sansa,”**_ Arya read out loud, a slight sneer tilting her lips. _**“- to write this and to know that you are in the arms of your loving family does my heart well. I feared the worst after hearing the stories of the brutality you suffered at the hands of Ramsay Bolton; you have no idea how happy I am to know you are with your loved ones, safe and unharmed.”**_ Beside them Asander growled softly, picking up the emotions coming from his mistress. Ghost bared his teeth causing a servant who was walking pass give the great white beast a wide berth. _**“And knowing that I – your ever loving servant, had a hand in your pain, distresses me so. So much that I in fact was about to ride north with the knights of the Vale to come to your aide! I can’t begin to contemplate what you went through but please know, beloved, that I admit to making a mistake. A horrible, tragic mistake to which I have no words for. I know that your forgiveness is too much to ask but please believe me beloved when I say that I did not know what a mad-man Ramsay Bolton was. If there was anything in my power that I could do to show you how very sorry I am for what you went through please do not hesitate to inform me. I would do anything I could do to undo what has been done to you. I wish to meet with you, beloved Sansa, to express in person my remorse and possibly discuss our future. Because I still believe that we have a future. Together, like how the gods deemed it to be. Your servant in life and death, Petyr Baelish."**_

“Son of a fucking bitch!” Rickon snapped, enraged, having come up half-way through Arya’s reading. “No. You’re not meeting with him!” Rickon snapped at his older sister, echoing Jon’s thoughts.

“Rickon.” Arya said softly.

“No Arya, our sister is not meeting with the son of a bitch! He sold her to Ramsay!” their younger brother ranted, his face as red as his hair. Shaggy Dog, who they found had been kept in the dungeon kennels – snarled viciously, his eyes shifting from one Stark sibling to another.

“It’s not our decision.” Arya said firmly, turning to Shaggy Dog and staring at him. Jon watched as the usually temperamental dire wolf settled slightly, lowering his body, but snarling in defiance. “The decision is Sansa’s.” Arya told him. “And we will support whatever decision she makes.”

Rickon threw his hands up in frustration, turning to Jon.

“Jon! Do something!” he demanded, blue eyes alight with fire.

Jon paused staring at Sansa’s tense face.

“What is it you want to do, Sansa?” he asked her softly. Cold blue eyes turned to Jon.

“Meet with him.” She told them, her voice firm and unyielding the look in her eyes reminding him of Robb. “I want to look him in his eyes and see for myself if he knew what kind of man Ramsay was.” she paused, her face so cold. So hard. “He had to. There is very little a man like Petyr does not know.”

“And when you do see him, and you see that truth in his eyes.” Jon asked his sister.

A cold smile crossed Sansa’s lips.

“Then he will know what it means to betray a Stark.” Her fingers sank back into Asander’s fur, the wolf growling with the same menace in his mistresses’ face. “Then he will know what it means to betray me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all a MASSIVE thank you to everyone who commented liked and encouraged me with this fic. It really is appreciated and helps me go on. Especially when people drop a few ideas for me to go along and helps me to continue on with this fic.  
> And also I’ve had a couple of comments about Arya being Mary-Sueish which I have to admit that I had to look it up to find out what it meant. And once I found out what it meant I realized that I actually had made her to be that. Whether I intended to or not but I should’ve said that this was an Arya-centric fic. I really wanted to write an Arya-centric fic where it was Arya who everyone looked up to and loved, and was in love with. I have read a lot of really awesome fics about Sansa and Jon being the special ones and I wanted Arya to have her time in the lime light. Maybe because she is my favorite character and for me supersedes all others. I do have a few outline chapters already written out for other characters where she is in the background but most things will lead back to her. Sorry… but I hope everyone else enjoys this!


	11. Chapter 11

It was unsettling for Ser Jamie Lannister to watch his beloved sister as she was now. So full of vengeance, bitterness, anger and greed.

But then again Cersei Lannister had never been satisfied with just what she had. She had always wanted more. More things, more trinkets, just more. And what Cersei wanted she usually got. If not from father, because Tywin Lannister would only indulge her for so long before he would tell her to act like a lion she was, then she would get whatever she wanted from him. And if he could not do it, then she would do anything, kill anyone to get exactly what she wanted, when she wanted, how she wanted.

And if she didn’t, everyone – bar their father – bore the brunt of her anger. Many serving girls had been slain all because of his sister’s jealous temper and many people had been paid to keep their silence after her rash actions.

Her determination to have what she wanted superseded everyone else.

And she had always wanted to be Queen. As kids leading into their teenage years, she would weave tales about her marrying the king, killing him and then as queen she would make him, Jamie, _**her**_ king. Like how the Targaryen’s use to marry their siblings, so she would too.

And so she had married Robert Baratheon. Not exactly the King she wanted to marry but it was the king she got. Ensuring that father had brokered the deal to that would have her as Queen. Even though she and the whole kingdom knew him to be a whore-mongering drunk, she married him anyways. Because she wanted to be queen. And what Cersei wanted she got.

And while the King slept with whomever he wanted when he wanted, Cersei found comfort in his arms and in his bed.

And as Targaryen as it sounded, he fell hopelessly, helplessly in love with his sister, and had promised to do whatever he could to make her happy.

She had wanted children by him, so he gave her three, beautiful blonde haired, green-eyed children to whom she had dedicated her life to.

She had wanted her husband dead so he had help set that plan into motion.

She had wanted the Stark brat silenced so he pushed him out the window.

His dedication to her had been without question. Without thought. Without conscience. He had been willing to do anything and kill anyone just for his sister’s happiness.

But that was before Brienne. Tall, hefty, man-like Brienne of Tarth who had the ability to kill any man who got in her way. Tall, hefty, man-like Brienne of Tarth who ignored the trappings of society and became a knight, and a damn good one at that. Tall, hefty man-like Brienne of Tarth who opened his eyes to another world that wasn’t centred on Cersei and her wants or needs.  Tall, hefty man-like Brienne of Tarth who made him see the beauty within one’s person and not just the trappings of the outside.

But he had loved his sister, and she was the love of his life. And he had fought his way back to her parting amicably with the woman warrior, but her light of – goodness? – had tainted Jamie’s otherwise darkened soul so that now he looked at his sister with different eyes.

Had she always been this demanding? Had she always been this insufferable when she did not get her way and had she always been this devious? Had his love for his sister blinded him in all her past actions?

Because now, as a man seasoned with war, life and heartache, he watched as his sister, his beautiful, regal sister slowly declined into a world of insanity, spitting out unobtainable demands and calling for her champion, Ser Gregor Clegane – to chop off anyone’s head who dared oppose her.

It was like the Mad King all over again.

Like now, with him trying to explain how futile it was to take the Targaryen girl on in a hand to hand battle, and Cersei thinking that she will win because she wanted it.

“You do not understand,” Jamie said, taking a deep breath and resisting the urge to shake her to get her to understand. “We do not have the resources to withstand an invasion like this. The Targaryen girl has Unsullied soldiers, three dragons and also has a flood of Dothraki warriors at her beck and call. Warriors that we cannot even think to fight in a hand to hand combat. Only a fool would fight the Dothraki in an open field.”

A strange look came over her face as she stared at him through narrowed eyes.

“They are without mercy, without conscience. Without fear –“he cupped her face trying to get her to understand. “Her husband is said to be one of the cruellest and one of the best fighters –“Jamie continued.

“He is a savage.” Cersei snapped, pulling her face from his cupped hands and glaring at him.

“Savage he may be, but he is good at what he does. And that’s killing. He and his army of ‘savages’ –“he emphasised the word, shooting her a look. “ – are devoted to the Targaryen girl. They will fight for her. Die for her. Live for her.” 

Cersei sneered.

“And you don’t think our men, our seasoned soldiers, many who have weathered many a war, will fight for me? Die for me?”

Jamie paused staring at her, knowing that if given a chance, those soldiers would kill her dead. After they raped her.

“No. No they won’t.” he told her softly.

“Then we send them anyway. If they die, they die, what do I care of the lives of peasants. ” She dismissed, causing Jamie to close his eyes at her callousness. Where was the sister he had grown up with? The loving sister that he had fallen in love with. The loving mother to their three children? Had all her compassion and her humanity died with their children?

“Cersei we are sending these men to their deaths in a war we won’t win.”

“Then do something!” she fumed, throwing her wine goblet at his feet. She was never without a glass, these days. Her drinking like her sanity worsening as their children died one by one. “You stand here telling me what I can’t do, then do something I can.” She insisted her lips twisted into an all too familiar sneer. “Call to the seven houses and get them to call on their banner men. We are at war, and they are to serve their Queen!”

“The houses are silent.” Jamie told her, trying to call for patience. He had told her this already. Many times. “House Martell want nothing to do with us after the killing of Oberyn. As with House Tyrell, House Tully and House Baratheon –“

“They should fight for me! I am their queen and –“

“They do not support us.” Jamie said firmly, silencing her. “– we have Casterly Rock of course and maybe could get the support of the Greyjoys – “

“Then we get them.” She flung he hands out as if that settled the matter. It didn’t. Jamie closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

“We still do not have enough men. It is said that the Targaryen girl is to be housed up at Winterfell. She has the support of the north, Cersei. They are the biggest house in all of Westeros, with the most men. Men who will pledge their allegiance to Daenerys Targaryen.”

“They are nothing. They are run by a bastard –“

“Who has his brothers and sisters by his side. Sansa, Arya and Rickon Stark live. And they are with their brother at Winterfell.”

“That little cunt!” the Queen sneered, pushing herself to her feet and pacing. “She killed my Joffrey and now she plans on taking my throne. I want her dead!” she hissed.

“She is not the problem –“

“She is!” Cersei insisted.

“No dammit Cersei, she’s not. Sansa Stark is not the problem. Daenerys Targaryen is!” Jamie watched as she turned to him, staring at him through narrowed eyes.

“Then tell me, dear brother, what am I to do?” she asked him softly, and for Jamie it was like watching mask come over her face. While just moments ago she was ranting now she was a picture of calm collectedness. It would be a fascinating watch if it wasn’t so frustrating at the same time. “Do you want to parlay with the traitorous bitch who dares to take my throne from me? Invite her into my home under the guise of peace and then kill her?”

Jamie shook his head. As much as he wished that would happen it never would.

“They would never fall for that. Her council would never allow her do that.” Their brother Tyrion was her hand, there was no way he would send his queen into the lion’s den. Especially with Cersei being the head lion.

“Oooorrrr.” She drawled out, moving towards him slowly, distracting Jamie with the sensuous way she moved. Despite her descent into madness she still was able to make his heart pound and his body respond. Would he never be free of the hold she had over him? “Do you plan to invite her here, into my home, offer my throne to some blonde cunt and then marry her? Taking my crown and my throne from me?” she lifted a hand to cup his face almost lovingly, and Jamie leaned towards her, once again snared in her web. “You can’t have it.” she whispered, taking a step back, leaving Jamie bereft of her touch. “No one can! Ser Gregor!” she turned towards the man that once was Gregor Clegane and now was some maester experiment gone wrong. “Take my brother away. He is a traitor to the crown and to the realm.”

“Cersei!” Jamie watched as the same madness that turned Aerys insane fill his sister’s beautiful green eyes. A moment too late he felt the Mountain land a massive hand on his shoulder, squeezing none too gently. Jamie turned reaching to draw his sword only to have the Mountain squeeze his shoulder harder, the shoulder of his good hand, and Jamie heard the sickening crunch of bones before he felt searing pain.

“Cersei!” he whispered, staring at her but not seeing his sister, but someone else entirely.

“Enough! You betrayed me one too many times, brother, but because of my love for you, you will not lose your life. Instead you will rot in the same dungeons that our brother was supposed to rot it. You know, our brother who you helped escape? The one who killed father and you betrayed me for?” she sneered, stepping away from him.

“I demand trial by combat!” Jamie said through his pain.

“Denied.” She whispered, staring at him before inclining her head at the man behind him.

“Cersei, wait –“Jamie began before he felt a sharp pain in the back of his head and everything went black.

And as Cersei Lannister, First of her name, Queen of the Andals and the First men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, watched as her champion lifted her brother and carry him out of her rooms, all she could think of was, if Daenerys Targaryen wanted a war. Then a war she would have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that characters will be OOC so this Cersei is the one I made up in my head! Kinda struggled with this one too... trying to get into Cersei's mind wasn't as easy as I hoped so I jumped to Jamie who is actually sane. Please don't be too harsh... haha


	12. Chapter 12

They came through the castle gates, a small company of Dothraki warriors and Unsullied soldiers leading a large double-decked wheelhouse of rich coloured woods, intricate carvings and gold plated sidings.

The men that rode with them were covered head to toe in light winter furs – very much like the ones his sister and her guard wore – and numbered to about twenty warriors. But it was three particular men that rode alongside the carriage that stood out among them.

  
The one dressed in Kingsguard clothing had to be Ser Barristan Selmy, a man who had once served Aerys Targaryen and then Robert Baratheon only to give up his position as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard when Joffrey had taken the throne. He instead left the shores of Westeros to find the true reigning monarch. Daenerys Targaryen.

A man of pride and honour, Arya had said. Someone who willingly served a monarch that he believed in. And he believed in this Dragon Queen.

The second one was Ser Jorah Mormont, exiled son of Ser Jeor Mormont ex-Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, who had been banished from Westeros for slave trading. His sister had said that he had initially been sent to spy on the Dragon Queen to gain his Kings pardon but ended up pledging his life to her instead.

But love – his sister said - could do that to a person, change their loyalties. And unfortunately for Jorah Mormont he had fallen deeply for the Queen. Enough to change his loyalties. Enough to watch the woman he loved, love someone else.

And the last had to be Daario Naharis, a man who according to his sister had been a lieutenant to the Second Sons, a sellsword company from Essos who would fight and kill for the highest bidder. He joined the Dragon Queens army because of a debt he owed but stayed because of the cause.

He remembered what his sister had told him about these three men, their strengths, their weaknesses. She said that one needed to remember as much about their allies as they did about their enemies.

And these three men would willingly take a knife in their belly for their Queen.

Taking a deep breath, Rickon turned his attention back to the Dothraki, trying to remember his lessons. Spot their weaknesses, every man had a weakness. Search for it, catalogue it and use it only if necessary.

But the Dothraki were dark fierce warriors with kohl lined eyes and scowling faces with blades of all different kinds strapped to their backs.

It was the blades that caught his attention. Some he recognised, thanks to his sister’s large collection but there were others that he did not. Others that held his fascination, his fingers itching to test one out.

The Unsullied were eyes straight forward, emotionless and tense. All waiting for their next command.  
His two eldest siblings stood stiffly beside him as well as the entirety of the Stark household, all there to welcome the Dragon Queen and her horde.

The only one missing was the very one who needed to be here.

“Where is Lady Arya?” he heard Ser Davos whisper to his brother, his tone concerned, as they watched what had to be one of the largest men they had ever seen, break out from the group and make his way towards them. His eyes were centred on Jon, scowling fiercely as he glared at his brother.

Jon to his credit stared coldly back at him, not at all cowered by the mass of this man nor the ferocity in which he stared at him. Although considering Jon had faced the Night King and an army of Whitewalkers, Rickon supposed that there wasn’t much that cowered his brother these days.

“She’ll be here.” Jon said softly, answering Ser Davos’ question but never taking his eyes off the man who had to be Khal Drogo, the Dragon Queen’s consort.

A hush fell among those waiting as the Khal came to a stop, a sneer tilting his lips as he continued to glare at Jon.

The two men stared at each other, locked in a silent battle that had the northerners shifting uncomfortably. It was Grey Worm who broke the tension as he pulled up alongside the Khal, speaking to him in low tones before he dismounted.

“My Lady.” He bowed at Sansa, causing Sansa to dip her head in acknowledgement. “My Lords –“Grey Worm addressed both Jon and Rickon. “Where is –“

“My-Arya!!” Rickon tensed as a boy - who had to be no older than 5 winters - roared his sister’s name, flinging open the carriage door and glaring at them. “My-Arya!” he roared again, vaulting to the ground and stomping towards them. “Where is she?” he demanded coming to a stop in front of Jon who blinked down at him in surprise. “Where is My-Arya?” he asked in a barely accented common tongue.

“Prince Rh-“Grey Worm began only for the boy to shake his head stubbornly, staring at Jon and then at Sansa.

“Where is she?” he growled, fists clenching.

The Khal gave a low chuckle saying something to the prince in a foreign tongue before dismounting.

“My Prince –“Sansa began haltingly, almost flinching as the Khal came towards them causing Rickon to take a protective step closer to her.

The Khal noticed this, his lips twisting in a mocking smirk.

“I want to see her now!” the prince commanded, turning his glare on Grey Worm. “You said she would be here.” He snapped at the man. “Where is she?”

“Right here, my prince.” Arya’s amused voice broke the staring match between the two as the kid turned his face lighting up as he watched Arya come towards him, a small smile on her lips.

“My-Arya!” the boy did a running jump towards his sister and she caught him in mid-flight her soft laughter barely heard above his excited babble.

Watching them Rickon couldn’t help but feel slightly jealous as he saw his sister push back the Prince’s white-blonde hair, a warm look of affection in her eyes.

The little boy in him was screaming that Arya was HIS sister, not this little blonde brat’s and he had no right coming to his home demanding to see HIS sister.

The man in him was unsuccessfully trying to push his own spoilt little brat back into the background.

Coming home had been emotional for Rickon. He barely remembered it, barely remembered his siblings and barely remembered his parents. Yet that had not stopped him for mourning all that he had lost.

But since being home the majority of his time had been spent with Arya.

There was a calmness in her that soothed the rage in him. She tempered him, helped him gain control of his rage and channel it in a different direction.

Their days were spent helping Sansa to rebuild their home, gaining the respect and support of the wildlings, helping the smallfolk of Winterfell with their needs and for him - training.

It was the training that Rickon loved the most. Hand to hand combat, weapon fighting, archery, it seemed his sister was an expert at everything and Rickon ate up her lessons like a man starved.

And the others respected her as well. From Jon to the wildlings to his father’s bannermen. They all deeply respected his sister and what she had to say. And for a woman to have such a voice was amazing in itself.

But then there were the special lessons. Ones that his sister said would help him protect their family when she wasn’t here. Ones that that taught him how to spot a threat by just a glance, how to tell when someone was lying through their teeth and how charm even the most aggressive of adversaries. Right before you slit their throat.

And then at nights, it was just the siblings. Sansa, Arya, Jon and him. After the war council meetings that had Jon and Arya holed up with the Lords hours after dinner and Sansa organising the servants for the upcoming royal visit, the four Stark siblings would just spend time together. Reconnecting with each other, rebuilding their bonds and creating new ones. No one would drive a wedge between them again. No one would use one of them for their own means. Not without a fight.

But as Rickon and his siblings watched as the little boy – who had to be Rhaego Targaryen - wrap his legs around Arya’s waist and tug on her braid, Rickon knew that his family circle was suddenly going to be much wider.

And he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

“Well.” a smooth distinctively feminine voice interrupted everyone watching the pair as a woman walked slowly towards them, her face a cool polite mask. “Is this any way to greet your Queen, Lady Arya?” the woman asked with barely veiled amusement.

Arya smiled back at what had to be the famed Dragon Queen, unwrapping the boy’s legs from around her waist and dipping into a smooth curtsey.

“Your grace.” Arya greeted a hint of warmth in her tones. “Welcome to Winterfell.”

::

How did he forget that he hated the fucking snow? It was so fucking wet. And cold. And Daario Naharis did not do cold.

Being that he was from Tyrosh where it barely rained, let alone snowed, Daario was more inclined towards the warmer climates than the freezing cold ones.

The things one did for royalty.

Muttering darkly he dismounted, grimacing as he sank into the snow before making his way towards the Queen’s carriage.

They had all been eager to get to this frozen version of hell for days now, the excitement of seeing their little commander waning rapidly as the days wore on.

Arriving on the shores of Dragonstone had been a poignant moment for Dany. They had all watched as she landed on the shores pausing as she scanned the surrounding lands. Her dragons flew above her, screaming their call as the Prince and Drogo came to a stop beside her.

Gracefully falling to one knee she sank her hands into the sand before turning a beaming smile up at her husband and her son.

“We are home.” She had told them, quietly.

But now they were here. In Winterfell. The home of the Starks, Warden for the North.

Fuck he hated the cold. The things he did for family.

Ignoring the tensing of the guards of Winterfell he opened the carriage door, ducking his head in to see his Queen and her advisor/handmaiden – the beautiful Missandei - shaking their heads.

“Got away from you did he?” Daario teased her in Valyrian so the Northerners wouldn’t be able to know that he was teasing the Queen.

“He’s a brat and I blame all of you.” She muttered shaking her head and taking his proffered hand. “And I blame her.” She said resigned; as Missandei pulled back the curtain to see her son wrap his legs around Lady Arya’s waist nattering away like a baby raven. “I especially blame her.”

Arranging her features Dany into a cool blank mask she allowed him to help her down from the carriage, her eyes on her son and Arya Stark.

Shaking his head at the babbling coming from the little Prince he turned to help Missandei before turning back to Dany, waiting to follow her lead.

Ser Jorah Mormont came up to her left, while Ser Barristan took the rear, as they followed their Queen towards the embracing pair.

“Well,” Dany drawled a small smile playing on her lips. “Is that anyway to greet your Queen, Lady Arya?”

Arya lifted her head and Daario felt his breath stall in his throat as she gave them a slow wicked smile.

Arya Stark was achingly beautiful. Silver coloured eyes in a lightly tanned face, with high cheekbones, full lips and ink black hair. Her face was slightly longer than normal yet it only added to her appeal. The Imp said her beauty rivalled that of her aunt Lyanna and having not known the aunt Daario couldn’t compare. But what he did know is that besides Dany, Arya Stark was one of the most beautiful women he had ever met.

There had been light flirting between them, mostly from him, and a few stolen kisses that lead to them to seeking satisfaction in one others arms on a number of occasions. But Daario always knew that it would only be a temporary thing.

Too bad, because Daario had a feeling he could easily fall in love with Arya Stark.

“Your grace.” She greeted, drawing Daario’s attention once more. “Welcome to Winterfell.”

The two women shared a smile that said more than words could say. Their affection for each other in a smile alone that only family could interpret.

“Well shall we?” Dany asked Arya turning to the silent Northerners, ever the Queen in public.

“Your grace.” Arya bowed slightly, her lips twitching in silent amusement.

Dany turned slightly towards Missandei, who nodded taking her Queen’s side.

“May I present Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. Rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Rightful Queen to the Andals and First Men. Protector of the Seven Kingdoms. The Mother of Dragons. The Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. The Unburnt. The Breaker of Chains.” Missandei introduced noticing the twitch of Ayra’s lips as both women shared a look that had Dany giving them both a narrowed eye glare.

It was an ostentatious title that had those close to the Queen almost laughing out loud.

But apparently the people of Westeros understood and expected these things.

“May I present Jon Snow, your grace, my brother and Lord of Winterfell.” Arya introduced as they came to a stop in front of the male version of Arya Stark.

Tall, lean with what was said to be the Stark long features and the dark brown almost black hair, the bastard son of Ned Stark bowed to the Queen, grey eyes so much like Arya’s watching Dany carefully.

“Your grace.” He greeted solemnly.

“My sister Sansa Stark and youngest brother Rickon Stark.” Arya introduced presenting the two red-heads beside the older brother.

Seven hells, he thought, what was it these northerners drank that popped out such beautiful women.

Sansa Stark easily matched both Arya and Dany’s beauty. Tall with porcelain skin, brilliant blue eyes and deep red hair. Her face looked like it was craved from the ice that surrounded them, an ice cold beauty with sharp cheekbones and blank almost emotionless eyes.

Damn these Starks sure make for a beautiful family.

The boy, the younger brother looked like a male version of Sansa Stark, with his blue eyes and his red hair. But the look in this Stark’s eyes was suspicion with barely suppressed rage.

Daario’s lips twisted. Interesting family you have little wolf, he thought, watching all three closely.

“Thank you my Lords and my Lady, for receiving us to your home. May I present my son, Rhaego and my husband Khal Drogo.” Dany held her hand to her son who reluctantly left his aunt’s side to stand beside his mother. Drogo just grunted glaring at Jon Snow like he killed his prized horse.

“Welcome Prince Rhaego, welcome Khal Drogo.” Sansa greeted stiffly, her eyes flickering from Drogo to him to Ser Barristan and then to Jorah.

Arya took a step forward brushing up alongside her sister smiling at Dany. If Daario hadn’t been watching the red head so closely he wouldn’t have noticed her visibly calming at her sister’s touch.

“We wish to welcome you, your grace, with a feast in your honour.” Sansa told her.

“Before we do that.” Dany held up her hand, as two men carried a large ironwood chest and placed it gently down in front of them. “A gift, from my family to yours.” She said softly her eyes on Arya.  
They all watched as Arya paused her eyes flying to Dany’s.

“Da –“

“Your father is home.” Dany interrupted her quietly in high Valyrian causing Arya to freeze as she continued to stare at Dany. Dany inclined her head breaking the little wolf’s frozen state. Stumbling forward she collapsed in front of the chest, visibly shaking.

“Arya?” concerned all three siblings broke rank and came towards their smaller sister, the youngest brother lifting his head to glare at Dany.

“I –“Arya paused reaching out to touch the chest reverently. “It’s father.” She told her siblings as they crowded round her, protectively. “They’ve bought father home.”

Stunned the Stark siblings stared at her blankly before all three raised trembling hands to touch the chest almost reverently. Sansa Stark had tears in her eyes as she leaned forward to kiss the chest; Jon Snow lowered his head while the youngest Stark dug his fingers into the wood, wordless.

Arya lifted her head to stare at Dany.

“Fuck it.” The little wolf muttered before leaping to her feet and grabbing the Dragon Queen into a hard hug that had the Northerners gasping and the Queens men laughing.

“Thank you, Dany.” He heard her whisper as the Queen threw off all sentiment and hugged her back hard.

“You are welcome, little wolf. You are welcome.”


End file.
